


The Eternal and Implicit Sherlock

by mvernet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Aftermath of a Case, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Bisexual John, Bisexual Mycroft, Blood and Injury, Bombs, Canon-Typical Violence, Crying John, Declarations Of Love, Depression, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Fantasy, First Love, France (Country), Friendship/Love, Hate Crimes, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Injured John, Long-Term Illness (Minor Character), Love Poems, M/M, Making Love, Minor Character Death, Musician Sherlock, Orphans, Period-Typical Homophobia, Poet John - Freeform, Poetry, Protective John, Protective Sherlock, Remorse, Roboethics, Sexual Frustration, Sherlock's Funeral, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Spies & Secret Agents, Suicide Attempt, Victorian Sherlock & John, Virgin Sherlock, War wounds, lovelovelove
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 20:49:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 38
Words: 85,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2322725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mvernet/pseuds/mvernet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victorian John Watson is a secret poet in love with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock is a perfect Victorian man, holding himself above the desires of the flesh, till John and his poems soften his resolve.</p>
<p>John and Sherlock in modern London we know everything about. Or do we? Missing scenes paint a very different picture.</p>
<p>A story about how a worn brown leather notebook brings both universes together.</p>
<p>.oOOo.</p>
<p>Note: On March 21, 2015, this, my first fanfic reached 1895 hits. That was my goal when I started 6 months ago. Thank you to each and every reader. In my heart it is always 1895.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You are my Country

**Author's Note:**

> My title comes from a very moving tribute written by Edgar W. Smith (1894-1960) a member of the Sherlockian Hall of Fame.
> 
> Why is it that we love Sherlock Holmes?
> 
> '...He is the personification of something in us we have lost, or never had. For it is not Sherlock Holmes who sits in Baker Street, comfortable, competent and self-assured; it is ourselves who are there, full of a tremendous capacity for wisdom, complacent in the presence of our humble Watson, conscious of a warm well-being and a timeless imperishable content. The easy chair in the room is drawn up to the hearthstone of our very hearts- it is our tobacco in the Persian slipper, and our violin lying so carelessly across the knees- it is we who hear the pounding on the stairs and the knock upon the door. The swirling fog without and the acrid smoke within bite deep indeed, for we taste them even now. And the time and place and all the great events are near and dear to us not because our memories call them forth in pure nostalgia but because they are part of us today. That is the Sherlock Holmes we love- the Holmes implicit and eternal in ourselves."

221b Baker Street, London, England, 1881

John Watson sat, notebook in hand, staring into the sea-coal fire at his newly acquired rooms at Baker Street. He rested his leg upon another chair, the wound from a Jezail bullet he received over a year ago still giving him pain. The pain was ever present, but he made a valiant attempt to ignore it by busying himself with drawing up a list of the attributes of his new acquaintance Sherlock Holmes.

He mumbled to himself. "He knows chemistry, but not even basic astronomy. He knows sensational literature but no classics. He plays the violin well."

John smiled and savored the memory of last night's at home concert for his benefit. The room was filled with the sweetest music he had ever heard. And in between pieces, Sherlock would ask, no, tell him what his favorite songs were. Damn the man, he was right every time.

In such a short time he had grown to admire Sherlock Holmes. He recognized his mad genius. And with his soldier's heart he already felt a strong need to protect and serve this valuable man. John Watson had found his calling. John Watson had found his new life.

He gently turned a page in his faded leather notebook and finished the poem he started several days ago:

You Are My Country

When I was young I heard the call  
That young men have heard for ages  
My strength, my virtue, I gave it all  
For a chance to write History's pages.  
I followed the call of my Country.

I gave it all with no regrets  
Save a pang for my life gone by.  
I would not change, and yet, and yet,  
It might have been better if I had died.  
I gave it all to my Country.

When weak with pain and empty of purse  
I wander the fields of my past.  
But I'll find nothing there to break this curse  
The Golden Summer is fading fast.  
I'll fade with the flag of my Country.

I found you when my heart was cold.  
How could such a fire be hidden?  
All flashes, beakers and pronouncements bold.  
I knew I would do as was bidden.  
I grew warm in an uncharted Country.

You gave me a place, a land brave and free,  
Something to live and to die for.  
I will swear to protect, it is a joy to me  
To help the hero of the land I adore.  
Yea, you are my Country now.  
You are my Country.

John heard Sherlock's footsteps on the stairs. He painfully stood up hid his notebook and straightened his vest.

"Doctor Watson? Are you at home?" Sherlock called with a smile in his voice.

"Ahem.... right here Holmes!" john answered

Sherlock could not stop his mind. He deduced John silently. "In pain, depressed, thinner than when we met, been brooding, no, his pen is out... writing... lists?... No, his notebook has been hastily hidden under the letters on the desk... writing a poem, again... about... me?"

Sherlock felt the same strange feeling about this man that he'd been feeling on and off for weeks." This Doctor, this wounded soldier," he thought,"cast off by the Country he held so dear, he wanted... wanted to help him. Wanted to make him...better."

Sherlock knew one thing he could help with.

"Would you join me for dinner at Simpson's, they have an inviting chess room there. Do you play?"

"Sorry, I don't know how." said John

"Good! I shall teach you and then you will be a worthy opponent on bleak Winter nights." Sherlock grabbed his hand and hurried him out the door.

Sherlock led the way.

And John Watson followed.


	2. Normal

221B Baker Street, London, England, 2010

John Watson couldn't sleep. It's been two days since he shot the Cabbie and saved his mad flatmate's life. He knew he was right to do it. He would do it again, no question. He also knew there would be no consequences thanks to Sherlock, Lestrade and perhaps Mycroft.

Sleep eluded him, because he felt such remorse. How did he ever become a walking weapon? He couldn't even figure out the number of enemies, no, human beings he had killed. Not a large number he rationalized, but a Doctor's number should be zero. Zero people killed. That's normal.

John sighed and reached for his empty whisky glass. He had drained it hours ago, it wasn't helping anyway so he decided on tea. He made his way to the kitchen and cautiously eyed Sherlock's latest experiment spread out on the table. Was that a human thumb in the dissecting pan? He closed his eyes.

"Normal." he said out loud."I don't even know what normal is."

John returned to the sofa, his tea warming his cold hands, and opened his laptop. Maybe working on his blog would help distract him. A picture of the Cabbie flashed on the screen. Sherlock must have been reading news stories on his laptop again. Looking at the man's face, he felt a chill up and down his spine and a fearsome flutter in his stomach. The man looked...

"Normal," John choked out the word.

John heard Sherlock's footsteps on the stairs. He closed the laptop and stood up straight, trying to hide his distress.

"John! Are you there?" Sherlock bellowed cheerfully.

"Ri...right here, Sherlock."

Sherlock couldn't help it. He deduced John Watson silently.

"Distressed, sleep deprived, pale, thinner than two days ago, drank whiskey, switched to tea, near tears, was just on laptop, oh." 

"This man," he thought."This brave wounded soldier who saved my sorry life is falling apart because he killed a man. A bad man. I want to help him... I want to make it better."

Sherlock could only think of one thing that might help. He walked over to John and gathered him in his arms.

"Thank you for saving me, John Watson." he said.

John was shocked, but the warm sense of relief that coursed through his body made him hold on tight. The tears came, and Sherlock held on. John calmed and stammered his thanks. Sherlock held on.

When John finally began to relax, Sherlock let go.

"The human touch, John. There are times when we all require it. It's perfectly normal."

"Normal?" John smiled.

"Yes, well, how about we dine at Angelo's tonight?" Before he could answer Sherlock grabbed John's jacket, threw it at him, and swished out the door.

John Watson followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those who read these drabbles and a Kudos dance (WEEEEEE!) for those who left kudos.


	3. The Poet

221b Baker Street, London, England, 1882

"You are a poet, Watson, why would you want to hide that fact?" Sherlock is in the midst of a rather heated row with an enraged Doctor John Watson.

"Holmes, I am not a poet. I scribble a few rhymes just to please myself. My rhymes are ridiculous, my meter non- existent, and I wouldn't know a Shakespearean sonnet from a trout. I am in no way a poet! And that's not my point!" John instinctively held his worn leather notebook over his heart as if to protect both.

"What is the point, Doctor?" Sherlock asked.

"My privacy, Holmes, you have invaded my privacy. I am shocked, and ashamed of you. You are much better than that!"

Sherlock looked puzzled. "I did not invade your privacy, Sir, I deduced it! You are a man of neat and organized habits. This applies to your writing. You keep a notebook for cases, another for case-related descriptions, you keep a folder for your drafts of A Study in Scarlet, another folder for the finished manuscript. and yet another folder for works in progress. You have a datebook and an address book. All of which you allow me free access to. Lastly you have the leather notebook you are clutching to your breast like a sobbing child. The leather notebook you carried into your bedroom the day you moved in. The leather notebook you hide from me under piles of papers and sofa cushions. And why would you hide it from me? It is personal, private. A diary perhaps? No, you don't write in it everyday, and the few times I have caught you writing in it you wrote short choppy sentences, stopping to think at the end of each line. Poetry. Simple deduction. And I would quite like it if you calmed down and appeased me with a recitation for I am, I must admit, very curious."

John sighed, and slowly placed his notebook on the desk. "I am sorry, Holmes, I accused you falsely. But you do not understand. I write these poems as a release. When my mind is in turmoil writing a poem settles it. I can see clearly again. I write what I can not express any other way. The words in my notebook can not hurt any one, can not hurt me. Sometimes it is as if someone, something, else holds the pen. I look back on some of my poems and can not believe I wrote them. It is a very private thing." John sought Sherlock's eye and was surprised to see the glimmer of understanding there. 

"My Violin, my compositions." Sherlock said simply,"I feel the same way, only, I play for you, John."

John started at the use of his Christian name. A sudden understanding of the man before him rose in his heart. He reached for his notebook, opened it and finding what he wanted he cleared his throat and proceeded to recite in a strong ringing voice.

The Violin Sings

Sometimes when you play the violin  
Basking in firelight, with it under your chin  
You think I am scribbling with my pen  
About our cases and how they did end.

But many times the notes from your bow  
Send me in ecstasy to lands I do not know.  
These words I hear as the music brightly rings  
Captures but a part of all that it sings.

Song # 7

Hawk upon the hill  
Soaring in the breeze  
Where am I to go with my Love?  
Tell me where to go.

Goose upon the wing  
Searching for the moon  
Where am I to go with my Love?  
Tell me where to go.

Where am I to go?  
Where am I to go?  
Where am I to go with my Love  
Burning in my soul?

Cranes upon the field  
Gleaning golden grain  
Where am I to go with my Love?  
Tell me where to go.

Gull above the sea  
Calling to the waves  
Where am I to go with my Love?  
Tell me where to go.

I will go to the mountain peak.  
I will go to the valley green.  
I will go to the waving sea.

Mountain high  
Valley low  
Sailing on the sea.  
I will take my love with me  
But where am I to go?

Heron in the rook  
Building nest of wood  
I will stay right here with my Love.  
For where am I to go?

Where am I to go?  
Where am I to go?

When John finished, Sherlock walked over to his violin and played the very song John referred to in his poem.

When Sherlock finished, John drew up to his side and whispered in his ear. "Words and music, eh, Sherlock?"

Sherlock smiled and touched John's cheek. "We fit together like words and music, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank You for reading! Kudos and Comments are coveted! Make a comment and you get to make a wish. Just like a falling star or a Birthday cake. Don't wish for a falling star on your Birthday cake though, very messy.


	4. Every Friday for Fish & Chips

Murray's Fish & Chips, London, England, 2010.

It was Friday, and John felt like fish & chips. Just a few blocks from Baker Street was a great little place, Murray's Fish & Chips. John strode into the shop setting off the door chime. 

"Heyyy, Captain!" Murray the owner welcomed John." Left long tall glass of water at home today?"

"You know Sherlock doesn't like fish & chips." said John with a smile.

"Oh, yeah, that's why he always steals yours, posh git!"

John liked Murray. He was older than John an ex-Army Sergeant, Veteran of the Falklands War. And there was nothing Murray liked better than exchanging war stories with Captain John Watson. Murray's mum originally owned the shop and when she passed Murray took over using her old recipes, John loved the special fish sauce served up in a cheap plastic mustard bottle. The place was always full because the food was cheap and good, but also because Murray had a rep for hiring any kid who needed a job, no questions asked. As long as you kept drugs out of his shop and showed up, he'd find you something to do and pay you that night. Of course the kids had to listen to Murray's "life lessons" as they called them, but they loved him and hung out at the shop. Sherlock included Murray in his homeless network. Nothing went on in the neighborhood that Murray didn't know about.

Today the shop was full of young families, loud teens, a few old timers in the corners, and ex- Captain John Watson. A normal mix for a neighborhood restaurant, so no wonder John spilled his special sauce when the door chimed and in walked Mycroft Holmes. 

Mycroft strolled over to the bright orange plastic booth where John was sitting a disdainful look on his face.

"May I join you, John?" Mycroft sat before John answered and started pulling napkins out of the dispenser wiping down his part of the table before resting his hands in front of him.

John swallowed a rather large piece of fish and said, "What are you doing here, Mycroft, what do you want?"

"Yes, well right down to business then, shall we? I've come to offer you a job. I am technically your superior Captain, and I have a job you are especially suited for."

"I won't spy on Sherlock, you can pull rank, you can put me in jail, Hell, you can threaten to eliminate me, and I still won't spy on Sherlock." John grabbed a napkin and wiped his fingers roughly, then folded them on the table mimicking Mycroft and glaring at him.

Mycroft sighed and leaned back. 

"Do you love my brother, John?"

"What on earth are you on about?" John's face was turning an angry shade of red.

They were interrupted by Murray. "Hello, Myc! Good to see ya! Slide over and we'll have a proper visit." Murray sat and put his huge tattooed arm around Mycroft's shoulder and gave it a friendly pat.

"A pleasure as always, Sarge, keeping out of trouble?" Mycroft smiled a genuine smile. And John's mouth dropped.

"Always, Myc!" Murray eyed John, "Looks like Alice in Wonderland don't 'e. New recruit given ya trouble? Has 'e said yes yet?" Mycroft shook his head and Murray leaned towards John lowering his voice. "This ain't no dream, Captain, whatever Myc needs you should give him. He's the best of the best. And personally, I think ya picked the wrong Holmes for ya boyfriend. Sherlock's a darling boy, but Myc here, he's a national treasure. Cheers, Myc, Captain, I'll leave ya to it." And with another friendly pat of Mycroft's shoulder Murray was off, back to the kitchen.

"Thanks, Sarge," Mycroft called after him, "I'll be in touch soon."

Mycroft's genuine smile faded as he brought his attention back to John.

John's face was comical. How could one face show the myriad of emotions he was feeling. Shock, anger, amusement, fear, disbelief and curiosity. He decided on amusement."

"Myc?" John grinned.

"Yes, John, I have friends. Loyal and loving. Murray is a wonderful person. He is also an agent in my employ. He saved my life. He saved Sherlock's life when he was on the streets. And I believe he may have saved yours last month. You see, he called me about a odd fellow watching 221b Baker Street and I had the man picked up. He had a gun, your name, number and address on his phone. Unfortunately, he gave us no information and when we released him he was killed by a hit and run driver."

John took a moment to process what he had heard and witnessed. Sergeant Murray was a secret agent. Mycroft was warm and caring to a man most people would ignore. Mycroft had a genuine smile. Mycroft was a national treasure. John suddenly felt stupid and ashamed. Mycroft loved his friends, his country, and his brother just the same as John did. Mycroft was a human being.

"I'm sorry, Myc, I'm ready to listen." Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the use of his nickname, but detected no sarcasm and let it go.

"John, I want you to become one of my agents. An agent with a very specific job. Keep Sherlock Holmes safe." John nodded and Mycroft continued. "I don't wish to spy on him, as long as he's clean and sober. I just want you to live with him, go on cases with him, stay close to him and protect him. And I want you to have the ability to use deadly force to protect him if need be, without any repercussions."

"Sounds like what I've been doing all along." said John quietly.

"Yes, but working for me will give you access to technology, a free hand to make life saving decisions, and a large bank account."

"Myc, I don't care about the money, but to be better able to protect Sherlock? I'm on board with that. You asked me earlier if I loved Sherlock, what was that about?"

Mycroft took out his phone and pulled up a screen. "I've seen your files John, all your files. You have volunteered the information on several psychological tests, that you are bisexual, but in your own words, choose not to act on it."

John cleared his throat, and used his professional voice. "I'm not ashamed of what I am, I know I'm attracted to men and women. I've had two brief affairs with men, one in Uni, and one in the Army. The Uni affair was over when my partner of one week slept with our Math Professor and the Army affair was over when my partner died in my arms. I chose after that to date only women. It was a choice, Myc. I'm not gay, I'm a bisexual choosing to act only on my attraction to women. Can you understand that?"

Mycroft looked up from his phone and straight into John's intense eyes. "I think you and I have more in common than you think." Mycroft leaned closer."John, are you in love with Sherlock?"

John closed his eyes, hesitated, and leaned towards Mycroft. 

"Yes... but I choose not to act on it." John pulled away. "You know Sherlock, better than I do. He's amazing, brilliant, and hasn't got a clue about how to love someone or have a relationship. He's a child, an innocent, vulnerable and virginal. I love him more than I can say. He will always be the love of my life, but I can not act on it" John slammed his fist on the table making Mycroft jump.

"You are wrong, John. I understand you want to protect him, even from yourself, but Sherlock needs to be loved. He's ready for it. You should not deny both of you happiness. Yes, he is all that you say, but he's also human. He needs your love and he needs to be able to learn to feel and express love for himself."

Mycroft sighed," Whether or not you tell Sherlock you love him is your decision. I still wish for you to work for me, no matter what you decide."

"Yes, Myc, I'll do it. I'll become your agent." John nodded.

"Good. Give me your phone, please."

Mycroft quickly slipped out John's sim card, replaced it with another and handed it back.

"Now, you will be able to reach me at any time. Just speed dial Murray's Fish & Chips. Press send once and you will get Murray. Press send twice and you will reach me. always. And next week you will have a tracking device implanted. Where is up to you. This shop is safe. You will meet me here at 6:00 pm every Friday, Understand?" 

"We'll meet up every Friday for fish & chips. Got ya, Myc." Mycroft Holmes gave John a genuine smile and Agent Watson smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "We meet up every Friday for fish & chips" is something Mycroft says sarcastically in The Empty Hearse, and I thought, Oh, what if they really did and John was in on everything! Thanks for the hits and kudos, everyone!


	5. A Stroll on the Strand

221b Baker Street, London, England, 1882.

The October rain had beat drearily against the windows of 221b for the whole day. John was feeling restless and weak, very weary of his continued poor heath. His war wounds and the enteric fever that almost took his life in the hospital in India, had taken it's toll, and London's Autumn weather was putting him a melancholy mood.

Sherlock on the other hand was fit and agile and at the moment immersed in a chemical experiment. The rain against the windowpane, the clink of test tubes, the sound of bubbling beakers, and occasional mumbled words from Sherlock had lulled John into a fitful nap in his chair.

"DRAT!" cried Sherlock as a test tube cracked over a beaker and noxious fumes started to fill the flat. Sherlock ran to the windows and pushed them open. He then glanced at John who was coughing and looking around in a panic. Sherlock grabbed John's hands and pulled him towards the door.

"It's nothing, Doctor, just a bit of Mustard gas I accidentally created. Come, the rain has stopped and there's a healthy breeze. Take a stroll with me till the room clears out. It will do you good to go out anyway."

John wanted to say many things to Sherlock right then, most of them quite rude, but another bought of coughing and rapidly tearing eyes made him agree. He took the coat, hat and scarf Sherlock was holding out to him and gave Sherlock a scathing look.

They walked down Baker Street in silence, breathing the refreshing air. Each quickly lost in thought.

Sherlock was sorry to cause his friend to feel even more wretched. Of course it was just a mishap and he knew John had already forgiven him before he even apologized. That was his John. Forgiving, merciful and just. Brave, and trustworthy. He had recently played a private little game where he came up with every adjective that described John. 241 adjectives so far and all of them with positive connotations. A forgiving nature, another reason to add to his list of why he most certainly was in love with John. That list had recently peaked at 352.

Yes, he knew he was in love with John. He knew he desired men and not women since he was 16. But he chose not to act on his feelings and desires. At 16 he decided that he was above physical urges and concentrated on cerebral pursuits. This worked well for him. He never had to feel immoral or deviant because he did not indulge. But then there was Doctor John H. Watson, who limped into his life and settled down in his heart. He loved him. He would die to protect him. He could not imagine a life without him. And he so wanted to indulge.

Sherlock slipped his arm into John's and pulled him close. He felt John lean into him, grateful for the support.

"I'm sorry, Doctor. I hope you are quite recovered now." 

"Accidents happen, Holmes, don't fret about me." John's bare hand lightly patted Sherlock's gloved one.

Sherlock smiled and proceeded to amuse the good Doctor by deducing the various people they passed while describing in detail how his earlier experiment was supposed to turn out.

John was more than amused, he was a study in admiration. He so admired this man. And counted himself lucky to be included in his adventuress life. He would gladly inhale a bit of deadly gas if it meant he could be here arm in arm with this treasure of a man. And arm in arm they were. So close their shoulders touched and their hands intertwined. He could feel Sherlock's warm breath when he laughed, occasionally their hats would bump and he could feel Sherlock's cheek near his own.

And, it was driving him mad. The thing he admired most about Sherlock Holmes was his purity. He neither desired nor would accept the attentions he so wished to give him. John was a Doctor, he understood his own urges were unusual but normal. But he knew through experience that not many people were as enlightened as himself. What he felt for Sherlock, what he knew was admiration, desire and love, to the rest of the civilized world was immoral, illegal, and depraved. Sherlock was above all that. He was a perfect example of a Victorian man, chaste, pure and cerebral. And John would be content serving this genius in any way he could. That would be his joy.

They had walked about an hour, enjoying each other's company, and had ended up at The Strand. The moon had risen and the stars were just appearing. The dinner crowd had dwindled to just some young couples here and there, and the clump, clump of the horse drawn Hansom cabs were few and unhurried.

Sherlock stopped to admire a beautifully detailed mandolin in a music shop window. They both leaned in to get a better look. The little alcove they found themselves in was dusted by a cold breeze sending dried leaves swirling about them. Sherlock reached over to pluck a stray leaf out of John's hair and their eyes met. John's own hidden desire was awakened by the unmasked desire he saw in Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock touched John's cheek with his warm gloved hand and John covered it with his cold bare one. 

The kiss was tender and passionate. They could not breath for the intensity of their emotions. When they came to themselves, dizzy with desire, they laughed at the sudden recognition of how stupid they had been. They walked home arm in arm to find a client waiting. 

Later that night John finished a poem about their stroll on the Strand. But not of the kiss, for that was only a beginning. 

A Stroll on the Strand

The unhealthy day cleared in the eve.  
You asked me to go for a walk to relieve  
My spirit and body still weak and ill.  
The stars were shining the moon half-full.

You took my arm to steady my feet,  
We wandered, talking, down Baker and Fleet.  
Arm in arm we strolled on the Strand  
Your gloved finger tips touching my hand.

I listened in awe to all you said  
Nothing else entered my weary head  
No sniggering jests, no hate filled eyes,  
London was ours under starlit skies.

Three hours passed in joyful mirth.  
London seemed the loveliest place on earth.  
Laughing and strolling through the night  
This bonny evening I felt all was right.

I leaned on you when tired I grew.  
You took my weight, as if you knew  
I needed someone to simply care,  
You needed someone to just be there.

We came back home, a client did wait.  
We both smiled, though the hour was late.  
A stroll through London had done us good  
We would take on the world, if only we could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Drabble is inspired by "The Resident Patient" by ACD. Or more accurately the awesome Sidney Paget illustration of Sherlock and John strolling down the street arm in arm from that story. In the story they had walked for three hours and when they saw the clients carriage outside 221b, Sherlock said "Good thing we came back" I always wondered what they did for three hours and why they might not have come back. Hummmm. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	6. A Portal Out Of Time

221B Baker Street, London, England, 2010.

John Watson sat at the Kitchen table watching Sherlock make a pot of tea. This didn't happen very often, Sherlock generally made horrible tea and much preferred John to do it. But if Sherlock put his mind to it he could make a perfect pot of Earl Gray.

John's head was throbbing, "probably a mild concussion," he thought. Sherlock and John had just returned from dropping Sarah off at her sister's place after their disaster of a first date. None of the danger he had faced that night, being kidnapped by The General, being hit on the head, watching as Sarah was facing certain death and Sherlock was struggling to save them, made him shudder with fear as much as remembering the sight of Sarah's brother-in-law's face.

At first Sarah seemed fine. In the cab she leaned into John and even half-smiled while John apologized over and over and Sherlock attempted to make her feel better by telling her the history of ancient Chinese weaponry. They arrived at Sarah's sister's just as Sherlock was explaining that the first pistol was no more than a hollow stick, a rock and some bloody good black powder.

At the sight of her sister, poor Sarah lost it. Sarah's brother-in law, a lorry driver with huge biceps, had lunged at them after hearing his almost incoherent sister-in-law sobbing the words, John...struggle...gagged...bound...almost died...into his wife's shoulder. 

It didn't help when Sherlock smirked and said, "First date, you know how it is." They only just escaped with their lives...again.

Sherlock gracefully poured John a cup of tea and picked up his own. 

"Ta." was all John could manage to say.

Sherlock continued talking about the code, filling in what john had missed.

John tried to follow, but the throbbing gash on his temple, the aching of most of his muscles, and let's not forget the old shoulder wound twinge, were getting to be a bit overwhelming.

"I'm shit at this protection lark," he thought bitterly, dreading when Myc found out Sherlock had to save him and his date from The General. "Well, I did manage to knock over the death dealing magician's crossbow thingy, saving Sarah and spearing the bad guy who was trying to strangle Sherlock. But who am I kidding, I'm no James Bond. I'm always clueless and stupid. A deadly combination in my newly chosen profession. Sherlock would be better off without me." At that last thought John sighed. "But I can't live without him. And I'm not going to." And just like that all was clear, except his concussed brain was not cooperating.

"John." Sherlock's voice was gentle and pulled John out of his reverie. "Are you alright, you're very pale."

"F...ine, Sher...all's f'ne." John's words were beginning to slur. Sherlock tensed, all attention on John.

John shook his head which made him dizzy, as he closed his eyes he felt a gentle touch on his forehead.

"Why didn't you have this attended too?" Sherlock pushed John's hair back from the wound."It's still bleeding a bit, not too deep though. Are you dizzy? Nauseous? Damn, John, you may be concussed! I'll get the med kit, Don't move, I'll be right back."

"I'm...'right... whos Doctors anywas... " he called after Sherlock, his fuzzy brain finally realizing that he may be in shock.

Sherlock came back quickly with the med kit and a blanket from the couch. He wrapped the blanket around John's shoulders noticing John's sharp intake of breath as he touched him. Sherlock was angry with himself for not noticing John's condition sooner. Why was it that when it came to John his brain seemed to stop functioning? John always surprised him and when his behavior practically screamed, "Deduce me!" like tonight, Sherlock was oblivious, focusing on John's comforting presence rather than on the man himself.

Sherlock busied himself with the task on hand. He carefully cleaned and dressed the cut, then poured John more tea.

"Drink it while it's hot, John, and take these painkillers from the kit."

As John quietly obeyed, Sherlock took John's wrist to feel his pulse.

"Irregular, it's all over the place," Sherlock was worried, which changed to astonishment as John entwined his fingers in Sherlock's own.

"I'm feeling better after all this attention. Hey, you're going to have some bruises there." John moved his free hand and tenderly touched Sherlock's neck. 

Sherlock trembled slightly at the touch, but leaned into it like a hungry cat.

"You saved my life again, John, thank you."

"My pleasure, Sherlock." 

John was inches away from Sherlock's lips. His head was spinning, but not from the concussion. John had initiated many first kisses before, but none like this. He was going to do what he knew he should never do. He was going to claim this beautiful man as his own. The world would either keep spinning or implode. He no longer cared which. 

"Sherlock," he whispered.

John reached up into those lovely black curls and pulled Sherlock towards him. Their lips touched and trembled as everything stood still. A first kiss opens a portal out of time where it will last an eternity. This first kiss was no different. Sherlock tensed, and then fell into John's orbit. John lost all sense of reality except for the taste and texture of Sherlock's lips. The kiss was pure love, and as John finished by lightly licking the inside of Sherlock's smile. He fell back into the real world, which still existed it seems. back to Baker Street with a smile of his own.

"John, I..."

"No, Sherlock, wait. Don't speak. Let me tell you some things first. I should not have done that ... but I just don't care. I love you, Sherlock. And you don't have to do a thing about it. I mean it. I don't want a thing from you. I know you don't know how to react to me now, so don't. But I want you to know I love you, unconditionally and with all that I am. I'm going to protect you, and care for you. I'll never leave you. Unless you ask me to go."

"I thought you were not gay, John Watson?" John was taken aback by the abrupt change of tone.

"I'm not, I'm Bisexual. And I choose to love you."

Sherlock sighed and waved his arms. "Always something!" he cried. Sherlock gently pulled John out of his chair, the blanket hitting the floor. He wrapped his arms around him and held him close, kissing him softly on the neck."Always something, John." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was inspired by a very forgetable short scene in "The Blind Banker", It's near the end. Sherlock pours tea (coffee?) for John out of a brown pot. I love the intimacy of the scene. They talk quietly while sipping tea. Nothing more. I added a bit though!


	7. Because We Love

221b Baker Street, London, England, 1882.

"Conan Doyle was here while you were out, Doctor. He was sorry to have missed you, said he'd see you at the Literary Club on Friday. He certainly is interested in advancing your new career." said Sherlock Holmes.

John popped his head around the corner of his bedroom door and called down to Sherlock who was seated on the sofa in the sitting room.

"Arthur is a fine fellow. And talented. The improvements and additions he gives me on my attempts to chronicle our cases are extremely valuable to me. He suggested I publish in the first place."

"Yes, and he encourages you to romanticize scientific fact so that I hardly recognize events that transpired in front of my own eyes." Sherlock was in a stroppy mood ever since "The Kiss". While Sherlock thought the kiss was the beginning of an exciting time of exploration with his Dear Doctor, John had chosen to ignore it. Oh, John was affectionate and endearing as ever, but their first kiss had remained a singular event. 

John sauntered down to the sitting room, wiping the traces of shaving soap off of his face with a towel. He had not finished dressing and stood talking to Sherlock with his shirt open and his suspenders dangling at his hips.

"Holmes, Arthur knows the literary world. He only took my rather dull accounts and infused some vivacity into them." 

"Severely edited your accounts, I would say. You think I can not tell your poesy from his romantic additions? Why you waste your time on sensational literature when you could be..." Sherlock rose and reached for John's leather notebook holding it high..." when you could be constructing more rhymes is beyond my ken." 

"I think there may be a compliment hidden somewhere in your speech, but I can not see it." John chuckled. "You only think my poems are worthy of publication because you are the subject of most of them." 

"Nonsense, Doctor." 

John pulled the book from Sherlock's hand. He opened it randomly and cleared his throat. "Here I shall prove it." John struck a comical pose, and began to recite with much flare, like a rather awful thespian. 

He walks like a spirit of the mist. 

The yellow fog swirls and enfolds 

His furrowed brow and clenched fist, 

His countenance awful to behold. 

And like a lithe invisible sprite 

He becomes one with the uncanny night. 

.oOOo. 

Murderers and criminals feel his doom. 

Smoke and fire, a volcanic eruption, 

Like The Year of No Summer, gray with gloom. 

The ash of his fire blots out the sun 

And fuels the tales of Frankenstein, 

Mad Doctors, Phantoms and Monsters of Crime. 

.oOOo. 

London’s Scuttlers fear to meet, 

Hidden by shadows in alleyways, 

The Walking Spirit of Baker Street. 

Who seeks out the night and shuns the day, 

Like the legend of soulless Vampires 

Truly great is the dread he inspires. 

.oOOo. 

Yet all his powers of darkness depart 

When in his chair by the docile fireside, 

Listening intently to a grieving heart. 

Fingers tented, deducing truth or lie, 

Leaning forward with eyes that haunt 

Patting the hand of a client distraught. 

.oOOo. 

"And again..." John continued. 

.oOOo. 

I do not want your constant care, 

Nor seek your presence to be always there. 

I do not need to be your whole world, 

Nor seek for my cup to be overfilled. 

I just need to see the strengthening sight 

Of your silhouette against the foggy night. 

.oOOo. 

I do not need you to run with me,

Nor seek the comfort of your company. 

I do not need you to hold my hand, 

Nor seek you to love me as only you can. 

I just need to see the strengthening sight 

Of your silhouette against the foggy night. 

.oOOo. 

I do not need your compliments, 

Nor seek your approval to be confident. 

I do not need your criticism or praise, 

Nor seek your attention to brighten my days. 

I just need to see the strengthening sight 

Of your silhouette against the foggy night. 

.oOOo. 

Sherlock had been standing, one elbow resting on the mantle, his ankles crossed. He was a picture of elegance. Listening to John recite his poetry was a pleasure, a pleasure he hoped he'd never have to give up. Sherlock loved poetry, as a young boy he would take Mycroft's poetry books and steal away to some hidden nook to read them. Here he learned about love from Shelley, Byron and Keats. He was both awed and frightened by it. He noticed that love poems rarely had happy endings and poets usually died young, poor and alone. He thought he might be better off without love. 

But his Watson changed all that. He never knew love till he met this glorious man and he was hungry for it. Starving. 

Sherlock slowly crossed the room and standing in front of John, gently took the notebook from John's hand. 

He read aloud,"I do not need you to hold my hand, Nor seek you to love me as only you can." he closed the book. "Why, John? Why don't you? I love you, John. Is that what you are waiting for? For me to declare it? Tell me what you want me to do, John! I am lost, just guide me, I'll do what ever you want!" Sherlock was nearly frantic. 

"No, Sherlock, no,no. I'm sorry. I left you in the dark for too long without an explanation and upset you. I'm dreadfully sorry! I love you Sherlock. You are the love of my life, my dear heart. I never wish to part from you. And I never wish to bring you any harm." 

John put his arms around Sherlock and held him close. Then released him just enough to find his lips with his own. This kiss was one of hunger. The warm taste of tea and longing was intoxicating. John gently opened Sherlock's mouth and swept his tongue deeply into its forbidden debts. 

Sherlock moaned and clumsily did the same. He felt John's smile upon his own. Those lips that read him poems of love were finally his. Sherlock deepened the kiss and explored his new love's mouth. His hand slipped into John's open shirt cataloging this new frontier. Nothing compared, not opium's stupor or cocaine's flush compared with this erotic sensation. His hand came to rest on John's heart rapidly beating in time with his own. The smell of linen and sweet soap filled his senses. The Good Doctor was his to investigate. And he would never grow bored with it. 

When they finally broke apart, unwilling to let reality back into the room, John took Sherlock's hand and led him to the sofa. "Sherlock, my dear," John kissed him briefly on the hand,"we are entering into a dangerous place. We must be very careful. I will not have you harmed by some indiscretion." 

"I don't care what society thinks, my love. I'm proud that you love me. I'll shout it from the roof..." 

"Sherlock, that's just it. We can't. We can't let anyone suspect. And we must be careful who we do tell. I fear I was wrong to put you in the public eye, but I didn't know I had found my true love." Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and pulled him near. John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock started placing gentle kisses on John's hair and face. 

"I want you to know, Sherlock, that what I wish we could do and what I think we should do are two very different things. In a different world I would court you. Give you gifts and flatter you. Take you around London and make everyone envious that useless old John Watson had himself the most brilliant and beautiful fiance' in the world. Yes, fiance'. For I would ask you to marry me to be mine for eternity." Sherlock huffed at the word useless and gasped at the word marry. "But, my dear, we live in a world that will never let us be ourselves, never let us express our love openly. So we must be discreet. We must make our own world behind the locked door of 221b Baker Street, inviting the world into the sitting room, but not to peep through the keyhole." 

Sherlock had closed his eyes, holding his love tenderly. John was right, they would even have to be discrete even in their own home. Sherlock thought of John taken away from him to be humiliated at court and imprisoned for the sake of their love. it would not happen. Sherlock would keep john safe. Keep both of them safe. He would devise a plan. He was Sherlock Holmes after all. 

John straightened himself to look at Sherlock. "Don't lose hope, my dear, I have a plan." 

Sherlock laughed out loud, "Pray, may I hear it, Doctor Watson?" 

John stood and laughed a little himself."Well, a half-baked plan anyway. I met a young author at the Literary Club, friend of Arthur's. Oscar Wilde. A delightfully quick, witty man, very dapper. He liked, A Study in Scarlet, very much, but gave me a cryptic warning. Better marry, Watson, and soon or people will definitely talk, he said." 

"So, you are going to leave me for a wife? No wonder they call you, Three-Continents-Watson!" 

"Of course not, but I am thinking of marrying off my paper counterpart." 

"And your dim-witted readers will assume the real Watson has tied the knot as well, not a bad plan, needs a lot of revision though, I'll get on it at once. Well maybe not at once." Sherlock went to John and gently fingered the open collar of his linen shirt."Read me a love poem, John." 

John looked into Sherlock's pleading eyes, and knew he was asking for so much more than a poem. John hoped he could be all that Sherlock needed. But for now his feeble words would have to do. He picked up his notebook once more and read: 

Because we love 

I am no longer alone. 

Even when we are parted 

I sense the presence 

Of another beating heart 

Ticking away the hours 

Till heart meets heart again. 

.oOOo. 

Because we love 

I gather strength. 

Muscles are firm and strong 

Arms have such power 

Legs can run miles. 

I am an invincible 

Force to be reckoned with. 

.oOOo. 

Because we love 

My spirit shines. 

Holy and everlasting 

Floating through time 

Never knowing whether 

It is night or day 

Forever basking in the sun. 

.oOOo. 

Because we love 

I know my fate. 

No Gypsy cards 

Or crystal balls 

Can tell me what 

I already know. 

It is written in the stars. 

.oOOo. 

Because we love 

Every song is a love song 

Written expressly for us 

By all the lovers 

Who loved before. 

Every love poem captures 

Our wordless joy. 

.oOOo. 

Because we love 

We will never go back 

To being one body 

Searching endlessly 

For an empathetic mind 

Who can break the bonds 

Of a lone soul. 

.oOOo. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was inspired by a dinner that Sir Arthur shared with his editor and Oscar Wilde before he published, The Sign Of The Four. I've always thought Watson falling in love with Mary seemed to be edited in as an afterthought. What if Wilde told Sir Arthur that Holmes & Watson seemed like a couple? What if Sir Arthur meant for Holmes to be Gay, but was warned against it, so he hints at it. I like to think of Sir Arthur as having us all on.
> 
> Hope this didn't have too much poetry in it. I did post a Poetry warning.
> 
> If you want to read more of "The Poems of John H. Watson" please visit my blog 
> 
> amongyourbeesandyourbooks.wordpress.com


	8. Boom

Murray's Fish & Chips, London, England, 2010.

John entered Murray's the first Friday after "The Blind Banker" case had been tidied up and placed in Lestrade's capable hands. He spotted Murray at one of the hideous orange plastic booths, talking intimately with what looked a Tesco stock clerk, at least the guy's baseball cap was emblazoned with Tesco's logo. As John came closer, he noticed Murray and the Tesco guy were discretely holding hands. A bit shocked, but not wanting to disturb them, John averted his eyes and looked around for an empty booth.

"John, please, do sit down." the Tesco guy had addressed him in Mycroft Holmes' voice. The Tesco guy was Mycroft Holmes. Shit, he was shit at this Secret Agent lark. John sat down and tried to act cool.

"Evening, Myc, Murray." He glanced at their entwined fingers. And then the Tesco cap. "I wish Sherlock were here to fill in what I'm missing." he managed to say.

Murray chuckled, "Well, Captain, Myc 'ere's been doin' some undercover work at my request."

" I detest undercover work but I never turn down the Sarge's requests," Mycroft squeezed Murray's hand, sincerity in his voice.

"Never, aye? Then why are ya not married to me and in me bed right now?"

"Oh, Sarge, not again, not here."

John felt like he was in Wonderland again. And he didn't know what to do with his expression, so he tried to manage calm and normal, though his eyes were extra wide.

Murray looked John in the eye."You'll see lad, you'll see. If these bloody 'olmes brothers ain't breaking ya 'eart while they try to protect ya, they're scarin' ya silly getin' themselves in trouble." 

Oddly, John knew exactly how Murray felt. The night he kissed Sherlock, the night he told Sherlock he loved him, was a blur. Sherlock had told him he passed out. Sherlock got him undressed and into Sherlock's bed. And Sherlock spent the night monitoring his pulse and waking him gently to keep him from going into a coma. John remembered nothing. He doesn't even remember the words to his declaration of love. But he knows he said it. And he remembers the kiss.

But the next morning, Sherlock acted as if nothing happened. John tried to talk to him almost everyday since. And always hit a Sherlock shaped stone wall. Cold and heartless and mean. John knew that Sherlock was somehow protecting John. Either thinking he would hurt John, or John would hurt Sherlock. John wanted to be patient with Sherlock but he was so frustrated he was furious at him.

"You told him, didn't you?" Mycroft said softly,"You told him you loved him and he shut you out."

John nodded.

"Lad, said Murray, "Myc's tried that with me a 'undred times. He thinks you'll be safer and 'appier without 'im. Breaks ya 'eart. Don't let Sherlock get away with it. Go back there and snog 'im silly.Then drag 'im to bed and..."

"Yes," Mycroft interupted, "we all know what John should do to Sherlock, Sarge. But Sherlock has a point, be careful. Someone might be looking for Sherlock's weak spot and it may be you, John. It may be a good idea if you continue dating women as a cover, and keep your relationship hidden. Again, whether you do it alone or let Sherlock in on it is up to you."

John rose and said his goodbyes. He could not decide what to do, he needed to think it over. He needed to see Sherlock. 

.oOOo.

John heard the gunshots and raced up the stairs at 221B . Sherlock was bored. Sherlock was shooting the wall (who apparently had it coming). John had pictured several scenarios on the way over from Murray's. Sherlock and John having a quiet talk. Sherlock and John holding hands. Snogging Sherlock silly and dragging him to bed and... but no, Sherlock was shooting walls. John tried to talk to him, but it had already turned into Sherlock rant. John grabbed his coat.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock yelled.

"Out!" John yelled back, "I need some fresh air"

Sherlock jumped off the couch to watch John go. Mrs. Hudson puttered about chatting pleasantly and wishing Sherlock a happy murder case, then heading downstairs. Sherlock turned from the window and didn't see John coming back. But he heard him on the stairs.

BBBBOOM!

The Baker Street windows were shattered and Sherlock was thrown to the floor. John who had just entered the room, was thrown back by the blast. Broken glass entering his body through his open coat. He tumbled down the stairs. The last thing he heard was Mrs. Hudson screaming "John!"

The pain woke him up again. his ears were ringing and his head was concussed yet again. And there was blood. Damn, his blood. "Not...good,"he thought, "but at least it wasn't Sherlock's. Oh, Bloody Hell!" 

"Sherl..." he began to scream, but warm hands and a deep voice calmed him.

"John, I'm right here. You will be alright. The ambulance is coming. Don't move. Stay awake, love."

"Sherlock, alright?" John tried to touch Sherlock's face, but the pain made him slump back and brought a moan to his lips.

"I'm fine, don't move! You have glass shards buried in your chest, John. You must stay still. I won't leave you. I'll talk to you. John, stay awake and be still. Please, John don't you dare leave me, I only just found..." Sherlock's voice failed him and he let out a gasping sob.

Sherlock was shaken by the blast, but his position between the windows had saved him. He had cut his bare feet when he realized John was not in the room and ran down the stairs. Mrs, Hudson had helped him into socks and shoes while he tended to John. Sherlock's dressing gown was elevating John's head, and clean towels were soaking up the blood.

Too much of John's blood was on Mrs. Hudson's clean floor. This should not be.

Sherlock sobbed again.

"Sherlock, I love you, you know that, right? No doubts, no confusion, I love you."

"I love you too, John. I'm sorry. I'm a fool. An idiot not to tell you. Not to cherish every second. John, John!"

John had closed his eyes, he wanted the pain to stop, but he would hold on, because Sherlock loved him. They were both idiots and John needed to make Sherlock stop crying.

John opened his eyes one more time for Sherlock. "Love..." he said and smiled before he fell back into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all you hitsters out there! And thanks to Arianna68 for bookmarking this work. It's a little thing I know, but it was a first for me.
> 
> Support first time writer's fragile egos. Comment, please!


	9. Unconditional Love

221b Baker Street, London, England, 1883.

The Evil Doctor of Stoke Moran

The Evil Doctor of Stoke Moran  
Killed with the poisonous Speckled Band  
The twin sister of our dear client Helen.  
We heard the horrible scream  
The dark lantern lit the scene.  
The pet had bit the Master's hand,  
'Twas a fitting demise for the Doctor of Stoke Moran.

On a perfect day in a one horse trap  
We rode Surrey lanes, in the air was a snap.  
The promise of Spring filled our breasts  
So different from our sinister quest.

I carried a pistol, Elay cartridges # two  
And a toothbrush, as I'd been told to do.  
I watched the glades of Surrey go by  
Till we saw the Manor of death and lies.

The Evil Doctor of Stoke Moran  
Killed with the poisonous Speckled Band  
The twin sister of our dear client Helen.  
We heard the horrible scream  
The dark lantern lit the scene.  
The pet had bit the Master's hand,  
'Twas a fitting demise for the Doctor of Stoke Moran

Later that night the plan was set.  
My heart was stout, but Holmes was upset.  
There could be a dangerous night ahead,  
He'd rather I'd be safe and warm in my bed.

I saw the glimmer of dread in his eye  
At the thought that his friend could possible die.  
I saw how sincerely he cared for me  
And feared to be the cause of more injury.

The Evil Doctor of Stoke Moran  
Killed with the poisonous Speckled Band  
The twin sister of our dear client Helen.  
We heard the horrible scream  
The dark lantern lit the scene.  
The pet had bit the Master's hand,  
'Twas a fitting demise for the Doctor of Stoke Moran

I asked if my assistance could aide.  
"It might be invaluable," he said.  
I pulled myself up in my soldier's stance  
"You will not go alone!" I silenced him with a glance.

We sat in poor Julia Stoner's bedchamber  
That night is a night I will long remember.  
We heard a sound and a menacing hiss.  
Holmes swung with his cane, he did not miss.

The Evil Doctor of Stoke Moran  
Killed with the poisonous Speckled Band  
The twin sister of our dear client Helen.  
We heard the horrible scream  
The dark lantern lit the scene.  
The pet had bit the Master's hand,  
'Twas a fitting demise for the Doctor of Stoke Moran.

A harrowing night spent in horror and fear  
Did so much for this tenuous soul, my dear.  
Though we knocked at death's door  
I came away with so much more.

I never felt so alive, brave and needed,  
This horrific Adventure with Holmes had succeeded.  
He saved Helen Stoner and ended up giving  
To me a new life and a purpose for living.

The Evil Doctor of Stoke Moran  
Killed with the poisonous Speckled Band  
The twin sister of our dear client Helen.  
We heard the horrible scream  
The dark lantern lit the scene.  
The pet had bit the Master's hand,  
'Twas a fitting demise for the Doctor of Stoke Moran

John looked over his freshly penned poem with a critical eye. He never thought his work was any good. But he had had plenty of time to work on this poetic version of Holmes' and his last case. He shut his worn leather notebook and let it drop on the blanket. John was propped up in Sherlock's bed with several fresh pillows behind his head. He'd been recuperating for weeks after "The Incident". And he was thoroughly bored. Although glad to be alive.

John heard violin music coming from the sitting room. it sounded sad yet hopeful like someone had lost their love, but knew they would meet again someday. He glanced at the basket chair Sherlock had set up in John's sick room formally Sherlock's bedroom. His heart clenched thinking of his dear Sherlock watching over him all these nights like a dark Guardian Angel. Sitting in that uncomfortable chair so as not to disturb him. All the times he had dreamed of sleeping in Sherlock's bed this was not the scenario he had envisioned. The violin music was reaching a climax. Sherlock would soon be in to check on him.

Sherlock held the last note of the music for as long as he could, his long fingers trembling on the violin's neck. He had been deep in thought , yet again, about "The Incident".

It had happened three weeks ago Friday. John had gone to his Literary Club as was his habit of late. He had asked Sherlock to come, if only he had. His thoughts went through the scenes he had memorized by now.

"My Dear Holmes, why not join me? The dinner is first rate, the company amusing, and there is always someone who stands to recite a passage from a new work. Always a pleasant evening. Do come, my Dear." John took his hand and kissed it.

"There is only one author I like to hear recite, and he is abandoning me." Sherlock folded his arms in mock anger. "And if that Wilde fellow drags you off to a corner for another little private chat, I fear I would be asked to leave for assaulting a cherished member of your esteemed club!"

"Jealousy is unbecoming on you, Dear, and how did you know Oscar always... Oh, never mind. I shall miss you, my love."

"Enough to stay home and recite love poems to only me?"

"No! laughed John.

"Well be off then. I've much better things to do than go with you to be with a group of insecure morons seeking praise for writing self-indulgent nonsense." Sherlock flopped on the couch.

John was insecure enough as a writer to find that Sherlock's words stung.

But he only said,"Goodbye, Holmes." and left.

Sherlock looked at the closed door. "No kiss?" he thought. "DRAT!" he said aloud.

.oOOo.

Several hours later, Sherlock was fuming. He was livid with jealousy as were his thoughts."Watson's late! Chatting and smoking with his new friend, no doubt. Drinking Brandy, he knows what that does to him." Sherlock remembered what Brandy drinking had done to the Doctor and what the Doctor had done to Sherlock.

"Damn!" he cursed out loud.

He grabbed his coat and hat thinking he would pull his Damn Brandy soaked Watson out of that Damn Club and drag him the Hell home.

Sherlock was so distracted he had not heard the running footsteps on the 17 steps. He opened the door to an out of breath Wiggins.

"It's the Doc, Sir, in the alley..." Wiggins was trembling.

"Show me..." cried Sherlock

The alley was the closest one to 221b. Sherlock looked where Wiggins was pointing and saw his Watson on the damp dirty ground. He was face down and not moving. John's bull pup, Major, was his silent guard.

"No, Watson! John! Sherlock ran to his side, sank to his knees and gently rolled John over. Major whimpered and licked Sherlock's hand. Sherlock's mind was racing. First he checked to see if John was breathing. His breaths were shallow, but steady. Sherlock let out the breath he had been holding. Next he checked for injury. No blood, except John's knuckles. Fight then. Large bump on forehead. From when he fell. Broken ribs, two. Many bruises from fists and boots. Two large men. Sherlock looked around. Two large young men, and a group of boys watching at first. Fought with john, knocked him down. He hit his head. Three younger boys took his coat, hat and shoes and ran. One man took up this brick. He studied the brick. He was going to...going too...Sherlock hands started to shake.

"Them was gonna murder the Doc with that brick, Sir, but me, the boys, and Major, we stopped them." Wiggins said proudly.

Sherlock finished the scene " Major attacked the man with the brick, drawing blood. He threw Major against the wall. And they ran off. Good dog, Major."

Major raised his ears at Sherlock's praise, whimpered again and snuggled closer to John.

"And we came at them with rocks, pipes and chains. They can't do that to our Doc Watson. I catch them cowards on Baker Street again, and they won't be able to run and hide. Them Bloody Bastards." Wiggins added fiercely.

"Those, Mr. Wiggins. Those Bloody Bastards." John said softly, but clearly.

"Doc!" cried Wiggins.

"John!" Sherlock took John's icy hands in his own.

"Cold, Holmes." Sherlock took off his coat and wrapped it around John. 

"Wiggins, go and get two strong lads to carry the Doctor home. Hurry!" Wiggins was off in a flash.

"John, love, John. I'm so sorry. I should have come, I should have been here. They could have... you could have been... John, Dear John, when you left...I...you... did not kiss me!" John felt Sherlock's tears on his face.

John smiled tenderly. "Sherlock, shhhh, I'm alright, I'll be alright. I love you. Unconditionally, my Dear. I'll never stop loving you, no matter what. I was stupid to leave you like that. Sherl..." John moved slightly and groaned with pain.

"Don't move John, keep still. You've broken your ribs. I've sent Wiggins for help. We'll immobilize your ribs and get you home. Do you wish to go to St. Bart's?"

"No! Home with you. Don't leave me."

"Never, John, never." Sherlock whispered. 

Major nuzzled John's hand.

To Be Continued!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My poor Johns! They'll be alright, I hope! Thanks for Reading.
> 
> Visit my blog amongyourbeesandyourbooks.wordpress.com for more of Victorian Sherlock & john.


	10. His Secret Treasure

221b Baker Street, London, England, 1883.

Sherlock stood deep in thought, his violin still in his hands. He recalled "The Incident" of a few weeks ago, not wanting to forget what happened to his Watson. He was enraged that the Bastards who hurt Watson disappeared so easily. He felt the presence of something more. A spider spinning a web around 221b Baker Street. Sherlock glanced out the window. Wiggins was running about with the younger boys, The Major barking, doing his best to keep order. Sherlock smiled. It was good to see the pup running again. He wished his dear Watson was doing as well. Sherlock's mind flashed back to John's bedside after "The Incident". it was early morning after a very late night. Sherlock was reading John's notebook in the basket chair beside the bed in Sherlock's room. Now that he had permission to do so, he tended to read it whenever he missed John. And although John was finally sleeping peacefully, his pup beside him, Sherlock missed john. So he read.

My Bull Pup

I've kept a Bull pup for a year or two.  
I found him at Peshawur, at the hospital there.  
Wandering about, begging for food,  
While I was ill and worn with care.

He took to sitting under my shady cot  
I had no food scraps to feed.  
So I scratched his ears, he liked that a lot  
He seemed to know all of my needs.

He went to the Nurse if I were in pain,  
Sat at the station and cocked his head.  
Quietly whimpered until she came  
To check on me in my bed.

I think you have found a little friend.  
The pup wagged his tail at the Nurse.  
His happy doggie ways did tend  
To help me when I felt my worst.

When I began to walk about  
He remained right at my side.  
When I was allowed to go out  
He trotted before me with pride.

I named him “The Major” because he had the look  
Of battle tough military men.  
When I cried “Major fetch me that book!”  
It amused me to no end.

When I was well I was sent back  
To Portsmouth by train and ship.  
The Major watched carefully as I packed  
I hated to end this friendship.

But The Major had other ideas  
He would not close his eyes.  
He stuck by me and did not show fear  
Though whistles and smoke filled the sky.

I took The Major on the train  
He settled right under my seat.  
And when I dozed, my head filled with pain  
He stood silent guard at my feet.

On the ship we met another pup  
Bobbie the hero of Maiwand.  
The Major and The Hero shared a sup  
Of the beef bones they were so fond.

Bobbie received an award from the Queen.  
The Major deserves one, I thought.  
Bobbie’s photo everywhere could be seen  
The Major’s award can be seen in my heart.

I moved in with Holmes who did not object  
The Major and Holmes got along.  
Holmes thought The Major deserved some respect  
Since he sang to Holmes’ violin songs.

The Major and I have decided to stay,  
On Baker Street no more to roam.  
Soldier and pup have come a long way,  
Seems we both finally found our home.

Sherlock put the book down and leaned forward to take John's hand. His eyes brimming with tears. He had been going back and forth between rage and anguish all night, till he thought he may just perish from too much emotion. How did people stand this! And, John! John felt this way all the time! How could he remain sane? He looked at his Watson sleeping, his many bruises starting to blossom. His pain lessened by the Morphine Sherlock gave him. This attack was no random street crime. Watson was targeted. Because of him. Because he fell in love with a man. Because John Watson was Sherlock Holmes' heart. This was a crime fueled solely by hate. Wiggins told him last night about the other gang. The Baker Street Scuttlers had appeared about two months before. Started by two brothers from Manchester. They showed up one day and handed out coins to boys that would join up. They seemed to be very interested in 221b. The Irregulars went to war. The Manchester brothers had a real hard time getting recruits after that. Wiggins and the others watched their every move and The Major guarded 221b. Mrs. Hudson was escorted to and from the shops with an armed guard. The boys would die before they let something happen to the kind lady who handed out biscuits and scones for a bit of easy work.

Wiggins had shed some bitter tears when Sherlock scolded him for not telling him sooner. " You are my eyes and ears, don't forget that!" Sherlock had said. Wiggins and the other boys worshiped "Doc Watson". Watson may have seemed harsh and annoyed by the boys troublesome behavior, but let one of them get hurt and you'd find Doc Watson in a dirty dark corner of London talking softly to a frightened boy while gently seeing to his wounds. And the boys knew you might get a long lecture on right and wrong, but Doc Watson would heal you and never tell a Copper what you did.

Sherlock felt the tears start again. How could he keep John safe? Soldier Watson had no fear! He walked alone through the streets of London like an illuminating light. Doctor Watson treated a damp alley like his private practice. How many times had Sherlock looked up at two or three in the morning to see John just getting home with his medical bag in his hand and his stethoscope in his hat. But Poet Watson possessed his heart. Loving, sensitive, his secret treasure. How would he keep his treasure safe?

"Tears, Sherlock? Not for me, never for me, dear!" John said sleepily. "Come..."

Sherlock knelt beside the bed as if in adoration. John stroked his dark curls like a blessing.

"I can't lose you, John. What would I do if I lost you? I love you, you need to know I love you."

"I know, I love you too. You're distraught and exhausted. I'll be fine, Sherlock. It was a near thing I'll admit. But it will take more than a gang of boys to take out old Watson." Sherlock smiled, John's soft voice worked like a tonic to his spirits.

The Major awoke, crawled over to Sherlock and proceeded to lick away his tears. Major was also sporting a bandage having broken his foreleg protecting his master. Last night John had insisted that Sherlock set the dog's leg before he would let Sherlock administer to John's needs. 

"Sherlock, you should take Major down to Mrs. Hudson. He'll need help with the stairs..." there was a knock on the door.

"Ah, that will be Wiggins to take charge of the pup. Come in, Wiggins!"

Wiggins opened the door and ran to Sherlock's room. He was always out of breath.

"Doc, oh Doc, Sir, you waked up!" Wiggins gave the Doctors hand a squeeze, mindful of his many injuries. "We've all been that worried about ya, ain't we, Mr. Holmes!"

"Woke and ain't, ain't a word, Mr. Wiggins!" said John. Wiggins smiled and patted The Major."Come on pup. let's get ya sorted out." 

Wiggins gathered the dog in his arms and headed for the door.

"Thank you, Wiggins!" John called after him,"I owe you my life you brave boy!"

Wiggins blushed,"Goooon" he said and was off.

John chuckled, "Is that even a word?" Sherlock started to laugh also, till John waved his hand to signal that even laughing hurt. John breathed shallowly, but kept a smile on his face.

"Lock the door, Sherlock, and come to bed." Sherlock looked startled, but obeyed instantly.

"Help me to sit up a bit, I need to be able to breath deeply to prevent pneumonia." Sherlock helped John get in a more comfortable position, kicked off his shoes and slowly climbed into bed." Put your head here, love," he patted his lap.

Sherlock maneuvered his long limbs so his head rested on John's thigh and he could look up into his Watson's face.

John started lightly massaging Sherlock's tense shoulders and arms. John could still feel the effects of the Morphine, he knew the pain was on the edges of his mind, but he felt comfortable and happy just concentrating on the sensation of Sherlock so close to him.

Sherlock on the other hand, was suddenly nervous. He had never been in someone's bed before. To keep their relationship secret, they had decided not to sleep together. And John knew Sherlock was a virgin and told him they could take things one step at a time so Sherlock would not feel pressured. Sherlock wanted to learn all John could teach him. At the same time it was frightening. John had told him many times an old maxim of his, "A life lived in fear is a life half-lived."

Then John's soothing voice caressed Sherlock's ear and washed away his apprehension.

Allow me to be  
The wine upon your waiting lips,  
The taste between the heady sips.

Allow me to be  
The red red rose you contemplative,  
The lamp you burn when the hour is late.

Allow me to be  
The book you open with a sigh  
The contented smile when you put it by.

Allow me to be  
The puzzle that fills your brilliant mind,  
The solution of which you are curiously blind.

Allow me to be  
The quilt upon your feather bed,  
The pillow nestled beneath your head.

Allow me to be  
The rain that soaks your overcoat,  
The puddle you jump with leaves afloat.

Allow me to be  
The sun in the morning that warms your skin,  
The window sunbeams that reach within.

Allow me to be  
The moon that shows your path is clear,  
The depth of night with shadows and fear.

Allow me to be  
The stars that twinkle in your eyes,  
The answer you search for in the skies.

Allow me to be  
The night that enfolds your beating heart,  
The noise you hear that gives you a start.

Allow me to be  
The force that keeps you away from harm,  
The luck that brings you back safe and warm.

Allow me to be  
The key that unlocks the attic room,  
The light that dispels the dust and gloom.

Allow me to be  
Yours.

And by the last line, Sherlock had fallen asleep surrounded by words of love.

.oOOo.

To Be Continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the Kudos and comments! I decided to add The Major to the story. In the original poem poor Major mysteriously disappears like in the real canon. But I'm glad he found a home at 221b instead.


	11. Fever

221b Baker Street, London, England, 1883.

The day after "The Incident" Sherlock had fallen asleep next to John his head in John's lap, and had managed in his sleep to wrap himself around his love. John looked down at Sherlock and continued to gently stroke his head and whisper soft endearments if he stirred. John was in pain, but if he didn't move it was manageable. He didn't want any more Morphine, he didn't like being away from Sherlock even in the recesses of his own mind. Sherlock was very close now. How John had wished for this very scene. He watched Sherlock's chest going up and down and felt his warm breath. John wanted him so. Even in his present state he felt his arousal growing. He smirked at his own body. When he was injured in the war he thought he might be impotent. His Doctor had told him that happened to many Soldiers after being wounded. And he thought he was right. He was always so tired. and when the fever hit him he thought his life was over. His slow recovery in London had not given him hope. Till he met this Blessed man. His Dark Angel. Since their first kiss he had had stirrings he thought were gone forever. Now his life was nothing but hope and excitement about what the future might hold. 

Sherlock stretched a bit and opened his eyes. 

"How are you feeling, my Dear?" Sherlock carefully reached up and kissed John's parched lips. "Tea, you need tea." Sherlock made a move to call Mrs. Hudson. 

"Sherlock, I'd love a cuppa, but talk to me first, Are you alright?" 

"I was not hurt, Doctor." 

"Of course not, you twit, I mean what happened to me. my attackers getting away, why I was attacked. How are you feeling about all that?" 

John did not tell Sherlock the vile names his attackers had called him, they had made it very clear why they wanted to murder him. He would not say those hated words in his own home, would not let Sherlock hear them repeated. He had managed to remember the names they stupidly called to each other, Don and Ed. And one of the boys had called out "Mr. Davis we gotta run!" 

Sherlock hesitated " The emotions are hateful. I could kill those sewer rats with my bare hands, but I won't let these emotions keep me away from you, if that's what you're getting at. Sherlock took John's hands in his own and kissed them. We won't live in fear. I want all you have to give me and I won't be afraid anymore." 

"Thank you, my Dear, I love you, you love me, we will be fine, I prom..." 

"Sewer rats!" Sherlock exclaimed."John you are brilliant! A star, a sun, a conductor of light!" 

"What?" John asked. 

"Your attackers, they escaped into the sewer! Just like the vermin they are! Tea we must have tea and I must consult a map of London's sewer system! John chuckled softly at the antics of his madman. 

.oOOo. 

John was recovering. But Sherlock was worried. John's appetite had not returned and his brief walks around their rooms left him out of breath and fatigued. Something was not right, A week after "The Incident", Sherlock woke next to his Watson who was mumbling and burning with fever. 

Sherlock paced around the room speaking out loud. "I need help, I need a Doctor, one who we can trust. Conan Doyle! That's it! He's a Doctor! Wiggins, Wiggins!" Sherlock scribbled a note.

Wiggins had taken to sleeping by the landing window in case he was needed. "Coming, Sir!" he called. 

"Take a cab, give the driver this note and this money. Get Doctor Conan Doyle. Watson is very ill. GoGoGo!" Wiggins took the note and ran. "Good, man." Sherlock said softly. 

.oOOo. 

Doctor Conan Doyle burst into 221b and handed Wiggins his cloak and hat. He found Sherlock placing a cold compress on John's fevered brow. John was crying out in his sleep, desperate to find someone. Sherlock looked up as Arthur entered, "He thinks he's back in the Battle of Maiwand." Sherlock said flatly. 

"Wiggins told me Watson was attacked! Why did you not send for me sooner Holmes?" He took in the sight before him and softened his tone. "Sherlock, I'll need cold water and towels." He looked into Sherlock's eyes and recognized the fear there. The fear of someone who might lose the most important person in their life. "Take heart, Sherlock," he said as he led him towards the bedroom door,"Watson is strong, a Soldier and a righteous man. We'll pull him through this." 

Arthur examined John, taking in the bruises and broken ribs. He suspected pneumonia, but his lungs were clear. Arthur thought about his patients medical history, wounded in Afghanistan, Enteric fever. Yes, it may be recurring in some cases. He felt john's forehead and took his pulse. A flare up, brought on by his ordeal. He could fight this. 

Sherlock came back with the supplies, as Arthur rummaged through his bag. He pulled out a cobalt blue medicine bottle and turned to Sherlock, "The fever he contracted in India has reoccurred. This is a tonic of my own formulation. It should bring the fever down in a few hours. The fever is not as dangerous in this form if we keep him cool and the fever breaks he will be fine." 

Arthur's firm and efficient manner was a balm to Sherlock's breaking heart. John would not die. Arthur would not let him. 

,oOOo, 

"Sherlock?" John called, Sherlock shook his head and came back to the present. He put his violin back in it's case, and went to check on John. 

Sherlock kicked off his shoes climbed into bed and pulled John close to him, He had been like this since John's fever broke. Never missing a chance to cuddle or kiss. If John was resting, Sherlock would sit in the basket chair and watch him dream. If dream turned to feverish nightmare, Sherlock would read to him or recite poems till John calmed. 

"I'd like a stroll in the park tomorrow, love. I desperately want some fresh air." 

"Certainly, love." Sherlock echoed back the endearment kissing John's cheek. it was cool and dry. Sherlock smiled. 

John moved to a more comfortable position, and kissed Sherlock's smiling lips. 

"Sherlock, you know our rule about not sleeping in the same bed so that we could not be caught in a compromising position?" 

"Yes." Sherlock deepened the kiss, till the Good Doctor could not breath. He pulled away slightly. 

"Bad idea." 

Sherlock chuckled and continued to explore the Good Doctor's mouth. He was getting very good at kissing John. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you hitsters! Poor Victorian John! Poor Modern John! Whoops! He's been waiting a long time for the ambulance. I'll get right on it!


	12. Tomorrow and Everyday After

St. Bart's Hospital, London, England, 2010.

Sherlock sat on a bench outside of ICU waiting for John to be wheeled in from surgery. It seemed like the ambulance had taken forever to get them here. He looked down at his blood stained t- shirt and pajama pants. John's blood, too much of John's precious blood was on his clothes. Sherlock's thoughts were a swirling storm. John must live. How could he cease to exist? The sun could not go out. John was his sun providing light, warmth, and life to Sherlock's moon. Sherlock only existed to reflect John's light. John was the brilliant one, the one who loved him. The one who stayed. The one who saved him. A few tears fell on the cold floor. Sherlock was an absolute idiot to have wasted even a minute of John's love. Why had he tried to ignore it? He could not remember.

The sound of expensive Italian shoes on the hospital linoleum, made him look up.

Mycroft raised his head and straightened his spine ready for battle. There was always a battle with his little brother. Only they could no longer remember the cause of the war.

Mycroft took his brother in in one glance and sighed.

"Sherlock, John's surgeon just told me that all is well. He is suffering from loss of blood, but his actual injuries were not too severe. Mild concussion, broken rib, and multiple lacerations from the glass. John was lucky he was strong and muscular, the glass shards could have entered his heart. " Mycroft stopped and waited for a tirade.

But Sherlock just said, "Thank you, Mycroft. I appreciate your coming, your caring, When can I see him?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and settled his eyes on Sherlock's blood stained socks, his shoes discarded and pushed under the bench.

"In about an hour, they are waiting for him to recover from the anesthesia and will move him into a private room I was able to secure for him. He will not have to spend time in ICU."

Sherlock knew this was not standard procedure. Just Mycroft throwing his credentials around. But for some reason he felt grateful to his brother for being here and for taking good care of his John.

Mycroft had stepped towards the nurses station and returned with a wheel chair. Mycroft knelt in front of his little brother and spoke softly.

"You are injured Sherlock. You cut your feet? Are there any other injuries?" Sherlock shook his head, as tears fell from his closed eyes.

"Mycroft," Sherlock whispered,"There was so much blood. I thought he was going to bleed out in my arms. I thought..."

"It's alright, Brother, I'm here. I'll take care of both of you. Let's get you treated and we'll come right back to see John, OK?"

Mycroft helped Sherlock into the wheel chair, straightened his tie and pushed Sherlock to a waiting examination room. The Iceman was ready for war, again.

.oOOo.

John was floating above the London rooftops. He had an open umbrella in his hands."Like Mary Poppins," he said, or thought. Can you think in a dream? Was this a dream? Then he was in 221B. But it was different, older, no younger. He was in Victorian 221b. A lovely deep voice was reading something. A poem. He entered Sherlock's bedroom. A man with sandy hair and a huge old fashioned mustache was on the bed. "He looks a bit like me! I should try that look," he smirked. The man was covered in bruises and bandages. John looked at the other man who was reciting from a leather notebook. It was Sherlock! No, Sherlock's voice but not his face, not exactly his face. Victorian Sherlock looked at Victorian John with love in his eyes."That's nice, a couple then, worked it out finally, good." Victorian Sherlock started a new poem.

Cold mists on speckled barren hills  
Shelter thoughts of gloomy dread.  
Echo the voices of the Dead  
Through the ditches and the rills.  
The Souls rebel tonight.

Brown cloaks pulled tight against the wind  
Can’t keep out the feeling of ghostly hands.  
Looking for payment for all who have sinned.  
Making it hard for the righteous to stand.  
The Souls ask why tonight.

Rain beats hard then suddenly stops.  
Lightening illuminates formless beasts  
That hide between heartbeats and raindrops.  
Your pounding heart proves you’re alive at least.  
The Souls cry out tonight.

Plans in the dark seek the light,  
Light can blind those used to shadows.  
Sounds of anguish fill the night.  
Dawn will burn the misty tomorrows.  
The Souls will see tonight.

John floated out of the sitting room windows. He was on a barren hill. He pulled his brown cloak tight against the cold wind. A ghostly hand touched his shoulder...

BBBOOM!

"Sherlock...Sherl..." John's eyes were open, and there sitting in a wheelchair next to him was Sherlock. His beautiful Sherlock. He was OK. He was more than OK. He was reading something in the dim light of the hospital night. His clean white shirt and black curls made him look like a dark Guardian Angel. His long legs were stretched out and resting on John's bed. Neat bandages covered his cuts and hospital slippers were on his feet. In his hand was a worn leather notebook.

"John. finally! You opened your eyes a few times, but you didn't speak. I thought the concussion..."

"Sherlock, slow, OK? Are you injured? You, alright? I remember an explosion. Was there a bomb? A bomb in Baker Street?"

"A gas explosion, but across the street. Blew out our windows. I'm fine. Mrs. Hudson's fine. A few cuts on my feet. The wheel chair was just left here by Mycroft for my comfort."

John closed his eyes again."Explosion, Hospital, everyone's OK, no ghosts, Morphine. He could handle this." he thought, and opened his eyes again.

"How bad, Sherlock?" Sherlock moved closer and placed a kiss on John's parched lips. he sat back down in the wheel chair and took John's hand.

"That bad?" John's sad look took his breath away.

"No, John, you are alright, you'll be fine! You were hurt in the explosion. Mild concussion, a broken rib, blood loss from glass embedded in your chest. You had surgery to remove the glass and all went well. Let's start over. What do you remember?" Sherlock wasn't testing John's shaken mind. He really wanted to know if John remembered what Sherlock had told him. That he loved him. That he did not wish to live without him. That he was an idiotic fool to waste even one moment of his life not cherishing his John. And he was so sorry he never told him all this.

"I was coming back, after our domestic." he imitated Mrs. Hudson and giggled a bit.

Sherlock smiled and thought, "Morphine John, this should be interesting."

John continued, "I came up the stairs and saw you, I entered and... then I went into your bedroom and Victorian Sherlock was reading poems from a brown leather notebook to Victorian John. Spooky stuff. About souls. Creepy. But it's OK, Sherlock, because they worked it out. Handsome couple, love written all over their faces. Victorian Sherlock sitting by Victorian John's bedside like a dark Guardian Angel. Then you were reading to me out of the notebook, same poem, different century.You are my dark Guardian Angel. I love you so much. That's it. All I remember. How'd I do? Do you think I should grow a mustache?"

As John rambled on a chill rose up Sherlock's spine. Mycroft had dropped off clean clothes earlier and had brought him an old notebook. The workmen he had hired to estimate the damage to 221B's windows had said some of the masonry was loose. When they poked around they found an old notebook wedged between the window sill and the wall. Been hidden there for over a hundred years. Mycroft said It was part of 221B's history.

To pass the time he had been analyzing it. Early 19th Century. Army issue. Inexpensive. Well loved. Owned by a man. A Doctor. Intelligent. Not a schooled poet. Very much in love. With another man. A secret love. The poems told him the man's biography. There was one name, the lover's name. but it had been scratched out sometime after it was written obviously for his protection. The Victorian poet reminded him of his Watson. But how did John know about the notebook? And Sherlock was reading a nicely creepy poem about souls just before John woke, but not out loud.

"Sherlock? I think I must have cut myself shaving off that mustache. Sherlock, it hurts."

John had been investigating his bandaged chest There was some blood on the bandages and John's doctorly prodding had caused him pain.

Sherlock put his full attention back on John and turned up his Morphine self-monitor a tiny bit.

"John, relax, don't touch your chest. Remember I told you you have deep cuts there and stitches. Just lie still, love, shall I get you some water?"

"You called me love! You called me love,love. LoveLoveLove. All you need is love!" John started to sing,"Dahdadadada!"

"No, no, love, absolutely no singing!" Sherlock chuckled at his seriously drugged up John.

"You did it again! Why are you calling me love, when you don't love me? I love you, I want you. But why Sherlock. Why can't you love me back? Am I too ordinary and boring?" John had worked himself up to the point of tears.

"John, please don't." Sherlock got as close as possible to John without hurting him and wiped the tears from his face.

"No crying, calm down," Sherlock stroked his sandy hair. "John listen to me. Carefully. You may not remember this tomorrow, but I need you to listen to me, OK?" John nodded.

"I love you. I love you so much it frightens me. I don't do love. I don't do relationships. But I love you and I want you. All you can give me. You are neither ordinary nor boring. You are extraordinary and exciting. I was a fool to hold back from you after you told me you loved me. You need to tell me what to do, John. I love you but I don't know what to do."

Sherlock thought of their Victorian counterparts and how they faced society's scorn, imprisonment and even death for their love. Sherlock's fears seemed so trivial in comparison. It would be a tragedy to waste any more precious time frozen in fear.

"Sherlock, my dark Angel, I love you so much. You have nothing to fear from me. I'll take as much or as little as you can give. We'll take it very slow, my dear heart. Nothing needs to change right away. Just knowing you love me and being able to show you affection when we are alone is enough for now. But one thing, Sherlock, no more hiding your fears. You must tell me when you are afraid because I'm here to keep you safe. A life lived in fear is a life half-lived. And you deserve to live without fear."

Sherlock took John's hand and kissed it. How did he ever get to this point. In love with this wonderful man. It's as if he had been given a second chance at life. 

"Oh, Sherlock, I'm so tired. Why am I so tired?"

"It's alright love. You need to rest. Go to sleep, I'll be here when you wake."

"Sherlock? If I forget you love me will you tell me again tomorrow?" 

"Tomorrow and everyday after for the rest of our lives, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who took the time to read my drabbles!


	13. The Giant Sewer Rat of London

221b Baker Street, London, England, 1883.

Watson had recovered from "The Incident" and the recurrent Enteric fever splendidly. Thanks to Sherlock's constant attention, and Arthur's herbal tonic, he was feeling better than he had since Afghanistan.

Sherlock had not been idol. Even though he would not leave John's side, he had managed to keep himself from boredom. He focused on analyzing Arthur's tonic. Adding a bit more tincture of Warnera root and a more concentrated infusion of willow bark. Arthur was a bit annoyed at him.

"Holmes, I appreciate your effort, but herbal remedies are quite looked down upon as quackery. I only use them as a last resort when all modern medical techniques fail. And I use only the tried and true remedies from my Grandmother's day."

"I understand your position, Doctor Conan Doyle, but no one who knows you could ever accuse you of quackery. You saved my Watson's life." Sherlock said with sincerity. Arthur smiled, a bit embarrassed.

Sherlock continued excitedly, "But the chemistry is fascinating! When the elements of the plants are broken down, a sort of anti-biotic is found. Weak but effective. If you could strengthen the dose somehow you might have a mighty cure for many different diseases."

"An antibiotic? A cure-all? Holmes, be reasonable. A simple herb doing what science can not? Absurd!" Arthur chuckled at his friend's proposition.

.oOOo.

John and Sherlock were strolling in the park. John had taken Sherlock's arm supposedly for support. With John's exaggerated limp, they looked to all the world like a kind fellow taking his invalid friend for some air. That was part of their plan. To hide their love in plain sight. They had considered a wheel chair, but John wanted the contact of walking arm in arm and Sherlock agreed. Wiggins, in his new suit, was trotting behind with The Major. John & Sherlock had decided to make him the 221b Baker Street page. And the change caused by the men's kindness and Mrs. Hudson' s food was apparent in the young man's proud demeanor. 

"Holmes, what is it? asked John, "you are very quiet today."

"My mind is in the sewer again, my dear Watson. I've received word that two brothers matching the description of your assailants have been frequenting local pubs. But this time they were paying their bills with shiny half-crowns. And then disappearing for days on end. I can not track them." 

"What do you make of it, Holmes?"

"The rats are using the London sewers, that much is evident. But I'm more interested in the giant rat who is making counterfeit coin."

"Coiners! I agree Don and Ed are definitely henchman. Not a brain between them. Do you know who the giant rat could be?"

"Not enough Data. But I have my eye on a Mathematics Professor who just purchased a portrait by Greuze." Sherlock squeezed John's arm."Tired, my dear?"

"No, love, I'm quite invigorated!" Sherlock smiled. It was good to have his Watson back.

.oOOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always thought if I ever met Doctor Who (#4 is my favorite) I'd ask him to drop me off in Victorian England 1895. But the first thing I'd do is discover antibiotics, just in case. And maybe Pepsi, but that may cause a rip in the time -space continuum.
> 
> Warning! Enteric fever is an old word for Tyfoid fever. And I made up Arthur's cure, it doesn't exist. If you are ill see a Doctor. If you are stuck in time with The Doctor use the sonic screwdriver.
> 
> Thanks for Kudos! Remember Make a comment, get a wish!


	14. You Gave Me Your Heart

221B Baker Street, London, England, 2010.

John woke up in Sherlock's bed. He smiled and breathed deeply. Sherlock's scent. Fine wool and spice. And home. He was home and comfortable and Moriarty was gone... John shot up in bed causing him to groan in pain. He'd forgotten about his stitches, being kidnapped, drugged, the pool, the bomb. Moriarty. "Sherlock!" he croaked, trying to get out of bed. "Sherlock! Answer me!" He was too dizzy to stand, it was hard to breathe. He was going into a panic attack. A soft soothing voice was talking to him. Someone was sitting next to him on the bed. "Sherlock is fine, Agent Watson. He's helping Mrs. Hudson bring up the tea. Seems she bakes when she worries about you two. Therefore, the need for help with overly laden tea trays." Mycroft was bringing John back from his panic attack. His hand gently rubbing John's back. The tone of Mycroft's voice clear, crisp, and authoritative. "Agent Watson! Breath slowly. Open your eyes." 

John obeyed. Myc was here. Everything was fine. 

"Myc, I so suck at being a Secret Agent."

Mycroft relaxed, and chuckled,"Yes, you really do, John. The worst I have had the pleasure of working with. But I would not trust any one else with my little brother."

They heard Sherlock downstairs arguing with Mrs.Hudson. She was obviously winning. Mycroft and John exchanged smiles. Mycroft swiftly changed his warm demeanor. "I think it's best if I leave now, unless you need me John."

"No, I'm fine, Thank you, Myc."

Mycroft knew he was far from fine. He hoped his little brother could handle this. "I'll see you very soon, John."

John lay back down on the bed. His breathing was still shallow. He heard Mycroft saying goodbye, Mrs. Hudson's worried fussing. And Sherlock's sharp tone trying to get everyone to leave. He wished Sherlock would hurry. He needed him. John closed his eyes. He was assaulted with visions of the night before. The bomb, Sherlock and Moriarty playing The Great Game while his heart was beating frantically. John saw Moriarty's face, "I'll burn the heart out of you." And the look of deathly fear as Sherlock glanced fleetingly at John. 

"Sherlock!" he yelled for him panic rising in his throat. He felt a tender hand stroking his hair. Sherlock was already next to him on the bed.

"John open your eyes, look at me."

John opened his eyes and grabbed Sherlock holding him close.

"No, Sherlock, no! Moriarty's wrong! He can't burn your heart out, you don't have a heart, you gave it to me! I have it! I'll keep it safe. I'll keep it hidden. He can't get to it. He'll have to kill me to get to your precious heart! I'll keep it with me even in death. I won't let it burn. I won't let it burn."

John was in a full panic now, sobbing and clutching Sherlock to him.

"Shhh, John, shhh. I've got you. We are fine. It's just the after effects of the drug they gave you. I'll help you through this. You must breathe with me. Slowly, love, slowly."

John's sobbing quieted as Sherlock continued to stroke his hair and offer comforting words.

"You are right, John, I gave you my heart and I know you will keep it safe. I love you. Moriarty won't understand that. We already have an advantage."

Sherlock held John till he fell into a deep sleep. "Sleep, my dear John, I'll never allow Moriarty to touch you again." he whispered. 

.oOOo.

After the pool incident, Sherlock and John settled in to a comfortable time in their lives. John always thought of it as the time before The Woman. John's blog had taken off. Sherlock had become an internet phenomenon. And they were together all the time. Working cases and working on their relationship. The cases were much easier.

Sherlock returned to being Sherlock. He practically ignored John, unless he was insulting him. John had decided they should keep their relationship a secret. Going as far as dating any woman who would have him. Sherlock agreed almost too easily. John was secretly happy to see Sherlock jealous of the endless stream of irritating and irritated girlfriends in and out of 221B.

John kept Sherlock in the dark about Agent Watson. He had to keep Sherlock safe. If keeping secrets from Sherlock and the world helped to do that, it was worth it. John might have been a bad secret agent, but he was a good actor. You had to be to fool Sherlock. Anyway right now there wasn't much to hide.

John played the 'I am not gay' role to perfection. but Sherlock seemed to actually forget, and that was hard. It might have been too hard to put up with if not for the promise. Sherlock had promised to tell John he loved him everyday. And he had not missed once.

Tonight like every night since the pool, Sherlock waited for John to tire and head off to bed. Sherlock's bed. which had become their sanctuary and Sherlock's classroom. 

"John!" Sherlock had changed to a t-shirt and pajama pants and jumped into bed like an excited child."I love you!"

John smiled. Every night had the same beginning, but always a surprise ending.

"I love you too, Sherlock." It was Sherlock's turn to smile.

"John?" It was classroom night tonight. Sherlock had endless questions about emotions and relationships. Since John said he could go at his own pace, he was busy gathering data about love. And John was his google.

"How did you decide you were bisexual?"

"I didn't decide, Sherlock, the word discovered is better, but even that falls short. I guess I always felt that I was attracted to both sexes. That felt normal to me. I thought everyone felt like me. What I discovered is that most people love the opposite sex and society says people like me are abnormal."

"That hurt you didn't it?"

"Not really, Sherlock, I wasn't ashamed. It was intolerant ignorant people that hurt me."

Sherlock wondered how any one could be intolerant of this wonderful person in his bed. Did they care if he was bisexual when he was saving their lives in hospital? Did they care he was a bisexual when he was taking bullets for them in the Army?

Sherlock cuddled his Soldier and kissed his cheek. John could tell Sherlock had more questions. He waited.

"John? I don't think I know what I am. I thought I might be gay, because women didn't interest me, but men didn't interest me either. I never discovered anything. I shut down all emotions at a very early age."

"You love me."

"Does that make me gay?"

John looked at this brilliant, beautiful man he wanted so much. He wanted to hurry him along. Make him decide and take his sweet virginity right now. He buried that thought, yet again. He could wait. Sherlock was worth waiting an eternity for. Sometimes it seemed like he had waited an eternity already. He chose his words carefully.

"Sherlock, I think it's good that love came first for you. I love you and I want to show you everything that being in love can give you. You don't have to worry about labels with me. You are my Sherlock. I am your John. Those are the only labels we need."

"I am Johnsexual, I rather like that label!"

"So do I, Sherlock."

Sherlock jumped off the bed. His mind fast forwarding to an experiment ageing in the kitchen. John sighed and picked up the old leather notebook that had become his alternate bedtime companion. Victorian Poet John, as he called him in his mind, was a great comfort to him when he felt frustrated with his Sherlock. It made him so grateful for what he had. The poet understood keeping secrets to keep your love safe. The poems seemed familiar, as if he'd read them many times before. As if the notebook was giving him a glimpse not only into the past, but into his own future as well. He turned to a new page. 

Love is a precious, precious thing,  
It hovers about on gossamer wings.  
Reaching for it will make it fly.  
Over and over again we will try  
To watch and catch it where it lands,  
And feel it fluttering in our hands.

Love is a precious, precious thing,  
Growing impatient to hear it sing,  
We trap it in a golden cage,  
Stamping around in a fiery rage,  
If anyone dares to hear its song.  
Jealous love seems so, so wrong.

Love is a precious, precious thing,  
Its beak is small, but it can bring  
A sprig of love to plant and wait  
For it to grow and seal our fate.  
Watered with our perennial tears  
It flowers joyfully year after year.

Love is a precious, precious thing,  
Though warm and soft it has a sting.  
Its heart can only be given freely  
To another heart committed completely.  
Or else it perishes in a frigid storm  
Taken by the howling wind, forlorn.

Love is a precious, precious thing,  
Around its talon it wears a ring  
To show that it is not alone.  
It belongs somewhere, it has a home.  
So simple, yet, so hard to give,  
Release your love to let love live.

John closed his eyes and tried to picture the Victorian Sherlock & John. The ones from his Morphine induced dream. He didn't want to forget them. John fell asleep watching Victorian Sherlock & John strolling through the park, while his Sherlock puttered happily in the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft keeps showing up! Oh, well I love him too. When you re-watch series 1, it really does seem like John and Mycroft have an understanding of some kind.
> 
> Strange, very, strange.
> 
> Thanks for the Kudos! Thanks for reading! Love to you all!


	15. Do Not Say Goodbye

Abbey Mills Sewage Pumping Station, North London, England, 1883.

Holmes and Watson stood on a sandy path looking up at the Abbey Mills Pumping Station. It was just before nightfall and the amber light of the setting sun was illuminating the towers and lanterns of this cathedral to sewage. The ornate ironwork was silhouetted against the sky and the Gargoyles guarding the lanterns seemed to be mocking them. 

After Watson had recovered his health, Holmes had doubled his efforts to find the rats that attacked him. Holmes had followed a trail of petty crimes and counterfeit coins to the Davis brothers of Manchester and right into the sewers of London. Yesterday Holmes interviewed Mr. Tom Minney, the supervisor of the Abbey Mills station's team of sewer flushers.

"Mr. Holmes, you say you ain't no Copper, right?" Mr. Minney obviously was afraid. And Holmes needed to know of what.

"I can offer you protection, Mr. Minney. Lestrade is a friend of mine. I'll take you to Scotland Yard myself tomorrow. Believe me, Sir, it's the Davis brothers I want and the giant rat behind them."

"I ain't done nothin' wrong Mr. Holmes, 'sept look the other way and takin' a few bribes. I ain't hurt no one and I just want out."

"Then tell me what you know , my good fellow, and be done with it!" said Holmes.

"Well, I hired them Davis brothers for my team of flushers, you know maintenance of the sewers." he began."They was terrible workers, always disappearin', loafin' in the pumping station, or gazin' at the sewer maps. Never doin' their work. I was goin' to fire them when they let me in on a little side business they had. They had set up some sort of hydraulic press in one of the spare rooms of the station. The station's like a palace you know. Lots o' rooms, plenty of odd places to hide. They been payin' a lot of workers to look the other way, and they wanted me to help them hide what they had goin' on from the prying eyes of the inspectors. It weren't hard to do. A few locked storage rooms, who's keys were 'mislayed'. This place is huge, Mr. Holmes. You could hide a circus in here."

"Understandable, Mr. Minney, and if the Davis brothers were just running a genteel book-making establishment you would be forgiven. But these men are coiners and assassins. They nearly murdered my partner!" Holmes was losing his temper at the morals of this man. Content to look the other way as long as his palm was greased and his own life was safe. "And I need to know who is backing them!"

"I don't know the man's name, Mr. Holmes, but them Davis brothers are dumb as bricks, and the younger was always sayin', "We should ask the Professor" and the elder would tell him to "Shut ya gob, don't say 'is name!"

"Professor Moriarty" Sherlock whispered. "I'll need your keys, Mr. Minney, and i would refrain from coming to work tomorrow night if I were you."

.oOOo.

Holmes and Watson quietly opened the main door and stepped inside. They were struck immediately by the metallic thumping noise of the main pump. It seemed as if they had entered the lair of a huge dragon, It's heart steadily pumping away while the eerily bright electric illumination cast fiery bursts of light on the dragon's treasure of fine ironwork, curved bricks and ornate tiles.

The building was a maze of catwalks and stairs. The huge pump, at least 20 feet high, was in constant motion. Its piston, gears and wheels all moving with a well oiled rhythm. It put a sense of awe in your heart for what modern man could accomplish.

And there leaning over the rails that guard the pump, laughing and jostling each other over the dangerous machinery, were the two human rats, Don and Ed Davis.

Holmes was armed with his favorite silver tipped walking stick, which in his hands was as deadly as the revolver Watson had ready in his. They signaled to each other with just a glance to separate and come up behind the laughing rats. 

Sherlock came up behind Ed and struck him with stick. He yelled clutching his head, but did not go down. 

Don turned on John and tackled him. The revolver let loose a wild shot which echoed against the walls of brick and iron before clinking down a metal stairway. John struggled and managed to get an arm around Don's neck in a strangle hold. 

"You bitch!" he cursed as John tightened his grip. 

"I'll be glad never to hear your foul language again." John threatened. 

Ed ran away from Sherlock's fury and climbed the catwalk. Sherlock followed, his feet lightly springing up the stairs. Ed looked ridiculous in a classic boxer's pose as Sherlock kicked and turned using his walking stick to inflict blow after blow on Ed's head and shoulders. One final kick from Sherlock sent Ed falling over the railing landing on the cold tiled floor unconscious. 

Sherlock heard John cry out in pain and swiveled in his direction. "John!" he cried. 

Don had backed John into the 12 feet high moving wheel of the pump. Don grabbed John's arm, twisted and pushed John's arm under the slowly rotating wheel. John's arm had caught on the wheel and he could not free it. The wheel slowly lifted John off the floor, dislocating his shoulder as he struggled to free himself. He cried out in pain. 

"John, I'm coming!' Sherlock screamed above the noise of the pump. He jumped on the railing and waited a moment till the giant piston was at its high point. He jumped on the piston and let it lower him to a point right above Don who stood rubbing his neck and laughing, enjoying John's pain. 

Sherlock jumped on Don from above sending him staggering towards the workings of the pump. He flipped over the safety railing and into the cogs and gears of the ever pumping heart of the machine. They heard a scream and a splash. The Thames would run red with Don's blood tonight. Sherlock did not even look over the railing, he was already climbing the giant wheel and ripping off John's coat sleeve to loosen the wheels grip on John's arm. Sherlock landed back on the floor and gently pulled John into his arms. John groaned as his shoulder was pulled free of the wheel. 

"Alright? Are you alright?" he removed John's torn jacket looking for blood and signs of injury. 

"Good thing no one saw you tearing off my clothes, Holmes, they would surely talk." 

"I don't care, my love." Sherlock kissed him tenderly and drew back to study his pained face. 

"My shoulder, Sherlock, my bloody shoulder, it's dislocated. It would be better if you made it right again." said John. 

"I'll hurt you, I don't like to hurt you." Sherlock was worried. "I sent the Cabbie who brought us here back for Lestrade, I paid him well and told him if he didn't return with Lestrade he would be in jail by midnight, thus guaranteeing a rescue. Can we wait for Arthur..." 

"No, it should be done now, just do it." Sherlock did as he was told, John smothered a scream of pain, not out of bravery, but out of concern for Sherlock's reaction. 

"Better, Sherlock, better. Thank you." They were interrupted by a stranger's oddly chilling voice. 

A man with a large forehead and long hair appeared out of the shadows. His shoulders were stooped as from long study. His eyes were puckered and he moved his head in a strangely reptilian fashion. 

"Welcome, Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson. I've been wanting to have a proper chat. This is convenient. And such a touching scene too." 

"Professor Moriarty, I presume." said Sherlock 

The Professor looked annoyed at the use of his proper name. He snapped his fingers and two armed guards were by his side. "Let's show our guests our little hobby." 

Sherlock and John were roughly grabbed by the guards and brought to a square storage room. Inside the room was what looked like another smaller room with a locked door. The Professor unlocked the door and said "Put Doctor Watson inside." 

The guard holding John threw him into the room and locked him in. John stood clutching his hurt shoulder and looked around. There was a low metal roof and a metal floor littered with coins and metal filings. Looking again he realized he was in an hydraulic press used to make coins. If they were to turn it on the ceiling would crush him within minutes with a ton of pressure. Dread rose in his heart. He could choose whether to die face down waiting for his back to crack, or face up looking death in the eye. He didn't like either option, and his Holmes was right outside trying to find a way to rescue him. He noticed he could see light through one of the wooden panels that made up the sides of the machine. Maybe if he pried it open... 

Sherlock knew what the small room was. His Watson was in a hydraulic press and this mad mathematician was playing with the controls and talking ever so pleasantly. 

"I brought you here, Mr. Holmes, to get to know you. Even though I already do know you. know everything about you. And your Doctor." The Professor pushed a lever and the machine hissed. It was hard for Sherlock to tell who sounded more like a snake the machine or Moriarty. "Yessss, I knew you were coming. This endeavor means little to me. Just a means to an end. Those fool Davis brothers were content to be paid in counterfeit coin. I am surrounded by idiots. I had hoped you might be different, yet here you are. Ordinary." 

"I've known about you since you bought the Greuse portrait. I've sensed your presence for months." Sherlock was buying time examining the press with his eyes. Trying desperately to think of a way to get his Watson out of the vile machine. 

"Good, well done." Moriarty sounded like a teacher giving a wayward student praise. "You are in my way. I want you to stay out of my way from now on. I think you know what I am capable of."

"Threats?" Sherlock answered. 

"Yesss! Very Good!" Moriarty pulled another lever on the press and the machine groaned to life, hissing and clanging. "You can act the hero and capture me on my way out or you can, equally as heroic, try to save Doctor Watson. Let this be a warning." Moriarty signaled to the guards who followed him out of the room. 

Sherlock ran to the controls screaming "Watson! JOHN? They are gone. I'll get you out! JOHN!" 

"I hear you Holmes, I'm working a wood panel open. The ceiling is closing in. HOLMES, SHUT THIS THING OFF!" He could hardly be heard over the pounding of the hydraulic canisters. 

Sherlock worked the simple controls, but there was no reverse, the press would close and then open automatically. He had no tools to smash it or jam it. Panic filled his heart. 

John, now on his back on the floor, had turned so he could kick hard at the panel. Sherlock rushed to his aide, gaining hope at the sight of his Watson's boots. Sherlock pulled at the loose board it came apart in his strong hands. The ceiling was just a few inches above John's head. 

"Sherlock." john voice was muffled, with a deadly note of resignation. "Remember, I love you, always, forever, I love y..." 

"NOOOOOO!" Sherlock let out a bloodcurdling scream. "DO." Sherlock pulled at John's boots with adrenalin fueled strength. "NOT." The buttons on John's pants were stuck in a metal groove on the ever lowering ceiling. John turned his head and closed his eyes "SAY." Sherlock changes his grip and pulls, buttons flying everywhere. "GOODBYE!" One last pull and John is free, his cheek kissed by the hard edges of the machine. 

Sherlock was on the floor shaking with silent tears streaming down his face. John was on the floor next to him breathing hard, his head spinning and his shoulder throbbing. Sherlock pulled him into his lap wrapping his arms around his waist from behind. They both watched the press descend the last few inches, hissing while it released pressure and slowly began to raise. 

"John, don't ever say goodbye to me!" Sherlock's voice was choked with tears. 

"I'm sorry, love. I should know better." John snuggled into Sherlock's embrace trying to clear his head. 

"Have you sustained any more injuries, John?" 

"No, just a bit of shock, I think. You?" 

"I could use a Brandy." he chuckled. 

Sherlock held John even tighter, placing lazy kisses on his ear and dirty cheek. 

"Love, Lestrade will be here soon, and going by this scene and the state of my ripped shirt and torn trousers, even he would draw conclusions." John joked. 

They slowly got to their feet, Sherlock steadying John with an arm around his waist. 

"Can you stand unaided for a moment, love?" asked Sherlock. John nodded. 

Sherlock went over to the now fully open and shut down press and picked up one of John's shiny metal buttons, now flattened beyond recognition. Sherlock put it in his pocket. 

"A souvenir!" he said with a smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was doing some Google Sleuthing about London sewers of 1883 and found the most wonderful steampunky pictures of Abbey Mills Pumping station. Check it out, if you like Victorian architecture or really cool industrial design. You'll be pleased to know, dear readers, that 221b most likely had a lovely Victorian Thomas Crapper designed loo. And the sewers were built in the 1860's. So 221b was good to go. 
> 
> This chapter is inspired (a bit) by the Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb (ACD)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	16. Love is a Dangerous Disadvantage

221B Baker Street, London, England, 2012.

John stood at the bottom of the seventeen steps leading to 221B, going back and forth in his mind whether or not to tell Sherlock about Irene Adler's death. He had already been upstairs. Telling lies. Sherlock took the phone. There could be no other reason than sentiment. Sherlock wanted to remember The Woman and John wished she had never entered their lives. John's heart clenched in his chest like every time he thought of Sherlock and Irene. 

At first it had been like every other case. Of course Irene Adler was a gorgeous, walking, talking, whip handling, real life fantasy, but it was just another case to them. Until she beat Sherlock, literally. Leaving John with a drugged, drooling, detective to care for, who still managed to hurt John with his mumbled words "Why would I need you?" 

That was the first night since the pool that Sherlock had forgotten to tell John he loved him. As John spent the night alone in his room he had kicked himself for acting so childish and needy. Sherlock might need a day or even two, but he would remember. How could he forget he loved him? 

By New Year's Eve John was at the end of his patience. His heart was broken. Sherlock slept alone. Sherlock stopped telling John he loved him. Sherlock seemed to be nursing a broken heart over The Woman. Sherlock shut John out of his life. The only thing that kept John from leaving Sherlock was Myc's weekly assurances that Sherlock would eventually come around. And Murray's insistence that Sherlock was somehow protecting John. John had decided that he would close off his heart and stay just to protect this incredible genius from harm. Even if that meant john would die inside. Listening to Sherlock play Auld Langs Syne for him had pushed John to his limit, the very large glass of Irish whiskey helping to lower that limit. 

Sherlock finished the song and turned to look at John's stormy eyes glaring at him from his favorite chair. 

"Sherlock, she's alive. Are you going to see her?" 

"She'll probably come to see me. I have her phone." Sherlock said quietly and sat opposite John. "And I knew she wasn't dead. I knew the body wasn't hers. Of course I could tell." 

John was dumbfounded. Then you weren't heartbroken? We all thought... well, you know, you stopped talking, eating, you composed sad songs... and you stopped loving me." he added his hand grasping his whiskey glass as if it were a life line. 

"Stopped loving... is that what you think?" asked Sherlock 

"What else could I think? Sherlock, we were close, we shared a bed. I had hoped... you stopped saying I LOVE YOU!" John's voice was shaking, he stood and threw his glass against the yellow smiley face on the wall. He turned to face Sherlock who had risen and was watching the smiley face cry whiskey tears. 

"Sherlock, The Woman came into our lives and you left me behind. You forgot all about me. You don't care about me. I'm like your skull, just someone for you to bounce ideas off of. Only now you have a whole person to amuse you. A stupid, idiotic, lovesick, useless, old toy soldier for you to break and throw away. Well, good job, you. Because I'm broken. You broke me." 

"John, sit down. Please." Sherlock said calmly. 

"NO! No, Sherlock! I'm not going to sit in my bloody favorite chair and listen to your bloody explanation about how you made a bloody mistake, how you met someone better and don't love me any more. You know why someone has a favorite chair Sherlock?" John grabbed his chair and pushed it over violently."No?" he kicked the chair out of his way and Sherlock stepped back. "Because it makes them feel comfortable, warm and safe. And the more you sit in it, the more memories it gathers, until it feels like home. You are my home, Sherlock. You took my home away from me!" John slumped to the floor next to his disheveled chair and buried his head in his hands. 

Sherlock fell to his knees in front of John and gently removed his hands from his tear-stained face. 

"John, you must listen to me." Sherlock's voice was low and anxious. 

"Why, Sherlock? Why are you talking now? Why should I listen to you?" 

"Because you need to hear what I have to say. Because I'm a selfish bastard to have let you go so long with no explanation. Because I don't love Irene Adler. Because I love you, always have and always will. And because love is one mystery I find I can not solve." Sherlock righted John's chair and extended his arm to help John rise. John sat in his favorite chair and tried to compose himself. Sherlock sat across from John watching him closely. 

"I'm... I'm listening, go on Sherlock." 

Sherlock began. His eyes drifted towards the fire in the grate. 

"Irene Adler has a brilliant mind. It isn't often I meet someone who not only matches my intellect, but surpasses it. Yes, to me she is The Woman. And I admire her greatly. I do not love her, John, but I think she has fallen in love with me. The game she is playing is complex and I have been endeavoring to be ready for her next move. I have been trying to understand love." 

John had been listening ready to accept whatever was coming, but he never expected this. 

"You mean to tell me you've been trying to figure out what love is? Why did you shut me out?" 

Sherlock kept staring into the fire and answered, "I'm too close to it. You love me too much. I love you too much. I need time to analyze it. I need time to find out if I can be what you want, or what Irene wants for that matter." 

"Sherlock, love isn't a case. It's not something you can deduce. Not a mystery to be solved." 

"Well what is it then? You tell me what it is not. I can tell you what it is. A simple chemical reaction, that rips the good sense out of peoples brains replacing it with idiotic romantic ideas and destructive behavior!" 

"Is that what I have shown you? What about loyalty, comfort and friendship?" John stood gesturing wildly. 

"What about frustration, hurt and despair? Sherlock stood and faced him."I've heard you in your room these last few weeks taking out your gun, contemplating using it, only to put it away hours later. I've stood by your door ready to enter if you removed the safety. Would that happen if you didn't love me? Loving me is dangerous, John, to you, to The Woman. I don't know if I can handle that responsibility, don't know if I want to." 

John was torn apart. How did Sherlock get things so wrong? But he was right about the gun. About his hurt and despair. John searched his mind struggling to find the words that would make sense of this madman's take on love. He searched for some defense, something meaningful to say about love. but nothing came. 

They both stood in silence. The crackling of the fire the only noise disturbing the quiet of the New Year. 

John took the first step, Sherlock the next. And they found themselves wrapped in each others arms, holding on, pulling each other closer, whispering endearments and apologies as the tension melted, each letting go and letting love have its mysterious way. 

.oOOo. 

John didn't like how things were. But he had agreed to give Sherlock time and space to analyze and draw conclusions about love. He only hoped that when Sherlock was ready he would give himself to John with an open heart. John already knew he would always love Sherlock. But he knew instinctively that someday the lies and secrets would come out. If only they could survive it their love would rise like a Phoenix from the ashes. 

John walked back upstairs,"One less lie." he said softly. 

Sherlock was looking out the sitting room window, his features illuminated by the light of London, a small smile on his face. 

John thought he looked breathtakingly beautiful. He frowned knowing he would be removing that sweet smile. 

"Sherlock." said John 

"She's not dead." 

John was taken aback. 

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock, but she was killed..." Sherlock stopped him with a wave of his hand. 

"I know what my brother thinks he saw, John, but I was there. I stopped her beheading and arranged for her safety. She may actually be in America now, it might suit her." 

John just shook his head. Sherlock always amazed him. And always would. 

"Thank you, John." 

"For what?" asked John. 

Sherlock came closer. 

"For deciding to tell me the truth, well, Mycroft's truth anyway." 

Sherlock gently touched John's face. 

"Thank you for giving me time." Sherlock kissed John's cheek. "I've learned that love is a dangerous disadvantage." Sherlock kissed John's other cheek. 

Then he whispered in John's ear."I've also learned that loving John Watson, has advantages that are worth the danger." 

Sherlock kissed John fully on the lips. Irene Adler's file fell unnoticed to the floor as John returned the dangerous kiss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you all enjoyed my take on Irene and Sherlock!


	17. Snug in your harbor, safe from harm

221b Baker Street, London, England, 1883.

Holmes and Watson were sitting quietly by the fire at 221b Baker Street. Watson was struggling with his notebook trying to work on a poem with his arm in a sling due to the dislocated shoulder obtained in their last adventure. Holmes sat in deep contemplation, the cherry wood pipe glowing as bright as the fire with his ever deepening breaths. Absently sending blue smoke rings to linger above his head like a dark cloud. He wasn't really oblivious to Watson's uncomfortable attempts at writing with one arm. On the contrary, his Watson was what he was thinking about. How he loved him. How he hated to see him in pain. How could he better protect him from harm. How to make sure Moriarty never touched him again. 

Holmes reached for the pillow Mrs. Hudson had put on his chair earlier. She was always leaving these horrid needlepoint things around the place. Watson always complemented her, telling her how fine and dainty the stitches were. "Could have used you in Maiwand stitching up soldiers." his Watson had joked, making Mrs. Hudson blush and run off to bake him something nice. His Watson was like that. Always making people happy. He made him happy.

Holmes took the pillow and placed it on Watson's lap, taking the notebook, placing it open on the pillow, making it a bit easier for Watson to write. 

"Thank you, Holmes. It's a damn nuisance this sling."

"Read me something, my dear Watson."

John fumbled through the notebook looking for what he wanted.There was a trace of pain on his face from the movement. Sherlock quietly sighed and closed his eyes to listen. 

While you in slumber beside me lie,  
My mind though calm is far away.  
I travel to a place of peaceable rest,  
A Knight am I on a noble quest.  
I serve the King of Passion’s played  
And hope he reigns for many a day.  
Mounted on my swift white steed,  
I travel looking for daring deeds,  
To prove my worth to someone dear.  
I am invincible and without fear,  
Passion rules my noble heart,  
As you slumber in the dark.

The lover’s might has all been spent.  
Passion’s release is curiously potent.  
Leaves you feeling all’s right with the world.  
Sleep will beacon, round your love you’ll curl,  
Dreaming of a ship in safe harbor  
Returned from a voyage to passion’s ardour.  
Cooling breezes stir the waves,  
Lapping and seeking out empty caves  
To fill with the ever-rising tide.  
Filled to overflowing and opened wide  
To let in all of passion’s powers,  
And wake refreshed in the daylight hours.

But I will be awake awhile  
Seeking a token to make you smile,  
When once again I see your eyes  
Looking at me with a hint of surprise.  
I will ride upon my white charger  
Till I meet your ship in its gentle harbor.  
I’ll ride like the wind with sword and lance  
To keep your love, I’ll leave nothing to chance.  
Beasts I’ll face, dragons I’ll slay,  
To earn the right to forever stay  
Encased not in armor, but in your arms.  
Snug in your harbor, safe from harm.

Holmes opened his eyes. ''Safe from harm." he repeated dreamily. They had grown so close. Intimate. More than intimate. In the world and in their sitting room they were Holmes and Watson. But in the bedroom they were just Sherlock and John. Sherlock's world no longer consisted of an unending litany of selfish wants. He now cared about John's wants, his needs. his welfare. The most amazing thing about being intimate with another human being was not the ecstasy of orgasm or the erotic pleasures of the body. It was the caring. Putting someone else's needs in place of your own. And knowing they are doing the same. 

"That was quite moving, my dear Watson. I believe you could arouse me just by whispering a few lines of that poem in my ear."

Watson lowered his voice. "We must try that. Experimenting on Sherlock Holmes. I like that idea."

Holmes chuckled and took his pipe into his hand. Somehow the time was right to broach the subject he was pondering.

"Watson, what do you think of France?"

"I hardly ever think of it. Do you have a possible case there?" asked Watson

"No, I have cousins there. The Vernets. Mycroft and I spent time there as children. My Grandmother was a Vernet, sister to Horace Vernet, the painter. my Mother's relations were quite wonderful to me as a young person. And one of my cousins Marianna is especially close to my heart. We correspond frequently."

John was shocked to hear Sherlock speak of relations. He didn't know a thing about Sherlock's family. It never felt strange before.

"Who is Mycroft?"

"My older brother, he lives here in London and holds a position with the British Government. Actually he is the British government." Sherlock smiled sheepishly."I'll introduce you sometime, we don't get along very well, but I see him from time to time."

"Do you wish to visit your cousin? Is something wrong?"

"On the contrary, she writes me she is engaged. To a mentor of mine, J.Henri Fabre." said Sherlock.

"The famous Entomologist? Why you have his volumes right on the bookcase. I enjoy reading them in the dead of Winter. His prose turns the subject of the lives of insects into an interesting tale. You can practically hear the buzzing of the bees in the lavender fields of Provence when you open a volume."

Sherlock smiled at his poet. "Well, then you'll be glad to know I had a hand in the writing of it, and Marianna also."

"Wonderful Holmes, you never cease to amaze me. Are you thinking of going to your cousins wedding? I would enjoy meeting your relations, that is if you wish me to accompany you." John thought his enthusiasm got the better of his manners, Sherlock's cousin did not know John. And Sherlock might want to travel with Mycroft. After all John was not married to Sherlock. He suddenly felt sad. He'd like to live in a world where he could give his heart to Sherlock officially instead of hiding it in 221b.

"John, I apologize, I'm not being clear." John startled a bit at his Christian name, and was listening intently.

Sherlock took a breath, he needed John to understand.

"We are no longer safe here. We have become famous and a famous private detective is not always a good thing. Moriarty is aware of our relationship. Soon I fear, we will be the victims of blackmail or worse. What if you are attacked again. What if you are far from me and I can't get to you. What if..." Sherlock was nearly in a panic. He grabbed John's hand and held it very tight.

"Sherlock, stop! I'm fine! You know I will not tolerate fear in my life. We can get through this time. I'll stop writing about you, people will forget..."

"i want to live in Provence with you. I want to visit my cousin and live with you in a French harmas, a cottage. France is lovely, John. And much more tolerant of couples like us. We could be free." Sherlock said earnestly.

"But what of your work? What of our home here? What about London?"

"I want to live with you without fear. I want you to be safe. Damn the work, and Damn London!" 

John grew quiet. "You don't mean that, Holmes. You would be lost without your work, and you thrive on London's dark foggy streets."

Sherlock hung his head. "Just for a while, John. A year or two? We could help my Uncle raise bees. I used to love that."

John chuckled at the thought of The Great Consulting Detective attending to hives and honey. Sherlock always surprised him. John didn't want to leave London, leave Baker Street. But he had before. Many times. London would be here when they returned.

"I'll follow you anywhere, Sherlock. But you know I don't speak French." John smiled.

Sherlock returned the smile. "Just say 'Je t'aime.' That will be enough."

"Je t'aime, Sherlock." John broke his own rule and leaned in for a kiss right in the sitting room.

.oOOo.

They had many things to attend to before they could leave for Avignon where Sherlock's elder cousin Honore' Vernet lived. First they needed to write Marianna to congratulate her, introduce John and let her know the situation. It would take quite a bit of correspondence to find them a place to live. But they did not need to worry. Vernets were resourceful. And Sherlock was well loved in the family. Honore' treated him like his own son. The old man was often heard to say, "I have five children, three French, two English."Honore' loved Sherlock and Mycroft, and he loved to confuse nosy neighbors.

Then there was the matter of 221b, Mrs. Hudson, The Major, Wiggins and the Irregulars. Or in other words the people, things and dog, that meant the most to John and Sherlock. John had not quite agreed to go. Sherlock would not leave without John, so John waffled back and forth for weeks. Until one night when Sherlock was out and Wiggins called for the Doctor, The Major right at his heels. 

''Doctor Watson! There's been a scuffle in the alley. Knives. One of the Irregulars, he's in a bad way." Wiggins was out of breath as usual. 

John said nothing, but grabbed his hat and coat. Wiggins grabbed John's black leather Doctor's bag. They had done this many times. "Too many." thought John. 

John saw a group of boys standing and kneeling beside a little boy of eight or nine. "It's Pip, Philip Nolan.'' Wiggins told John. The boys parted making way for the Doctor. 

John looked over the boy, he had been stabbed through the heart and lung. There was nothing John could do to save him. He took the boy into his arms 

''Wiggins! Bandages in my bag, and a syringe of Morphine. Quick now!" The boy stirred in John's arms. "Pip! Be still now. Old Doc Watson's got you." John said tenderly. 

John administered the Morphine and pressed bandages against the wounds. 

Pip opened his eyes. "I got 'im Doc. I hit him right in the belly for what he called you. And 'e was way bigger than me." Pip was obviously very proud of defending John. 

John cleared his throat, he would wait till he was home to shed tears over this little man. 

"There's a good fellow, Pip. Lucky to have you on my side. Good boy, I'm that proud of you..." John wanted the last words this little man heard to be of love and praise. 

Pip closed his eyes for the last time a proud smile on his face. 

John adjusted the bandages, and wrapped little Pip in his coat. 

John turned to the group of boys, some weeping, some holding the shoulders of those who wept. ''Tell me what happened." he said quietly. 

.oOOo. 

John left the Nolan residence two hours later. He had carried Pip home and broke the news to his horrified parents. When he finally left, he was totally spent. The evening had turned cold, and John had not the heart to take his coat from Pip. He somehow felt it was keeping him warm wherever he was. John shook his head at the notion as tears started to fall. John looked up and saw a tall dark silhouette leaning on the corner gaslight, the yellow fog swirling around the figure and obscuring the face. But John knew who it was. 

Sherlock came towards him and carrying John's black evening cloak. He stood in front of John taking in his tear stained face and blood stained shirt. Sherlock wrapped the cloak around John's shoulders and fastened the clasp at his neck. Sherlock briefly touched John's cheek with his gloved hand. 

"The little lad was protecting me, Sherlock, fighting for my honor, fighting for me!'' John's eyes were glistening with tears in the misty light. 

''I know, John. Wiggins told me when he brought home your things. The Baker Street Scuttlers are back. This time with big boys, not men. But a knife is not a boy's weapon. They may have adult backing. I must confess when I saw Wiggins with your hat..." 

''You thought I might be dead?" Sherlock nodded. 

John started the long walk home and Sherlock took his place beside him, glancing at John trying to read him. but keeping the silence. 

They arrived home to find a cold supper laid out for them, a lively fire in the grate, and Wiggins asleep on the hearth, Major in his arms. He thumped his tail at John's appearance. After they put their things away and petted The Major to quiet him. The dog returned to his sleeping friend and John went to change his clothes. He emerged quickly in a dressing gown of the deepest green. Sherlock's favorite. 

Sherlock could wait no longer. He pulled John into an embrace and whispered "I'm so sorry. " in John's ear. " Are you alright?" he added. 

John deepened the embrace and then slowly pulled away. 

"I've made a decision, Sherlock, you and I are grown men. We choose to live the way we do. But when we involve innocent boys, put them in the way of danger... I can not tolerate that. I'm going to France with you. Till these boys forget us. They will grow like boys do, and be safe from Moriarty or any other enemy we have made." 

Sherlock smiled. Leave it to John to surprise him once again. He never really thought John would leave London. He was afraid if John had stayed it would be prison at the hands of a blackmailer or death at the hands of Moriarty for both of them. Sherlock even toyed with the idea of disappearing. But he dismissed it. Sherlock was still selfish enough to want his Watson by his side, no matter what. 

John sat at the table where Mrs. Hudson's supper went untouched. Sherlock stood behind him and began to rub John's stiff shoulder. When John relaxed Sherlock sat at the table and started feeding John bits of cheese and bread. John made no resistance. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are no cases in the ACH canon between 1883 and 1886. These are sometimes called "The Missing Years". So where did Holmes and Watson go?  
> Ou' sont Holmes et Watson? France of course!
> 
> For more on the Missing Years visit my blog
> 
> amongyourbeesandyourbooks.wordpress.com
> 
> Thanks for reading. Make a comment get a wish!


	18. A Love Stronger Than Any Fear

Cross Keys Inn, Boutique Rooms & Vegetarian Restaurant, Grimpen, Dartmoor, England, 2012.

John was finishing his breakfast at a picnic table outside Cross Keys. The morning air was crisp and soft, just what he needed after inhaling the drugged aerosol mists in Dewar's Hollow. He still felt a bit jittery, sort of a hangover feeling but with anxiety instead of a headache. Sherlock assured him they would be fine, before leaving to "see a man about a dog." but John was starting to feel uncharacteristically upset about being alone.

John was just about to go and find Sherlock, when he reappeared and sat down backwards at the table. Sherlock picked up his now cold coffee mug, made a face and drank it anyway.

"They will warm that up for you, Sherlock, the coffee's quite good hot. So is the food, are you sure you don't want something to eat?"

"Maybe later, the cuisine here is extraordinary for the size and location of the place." Sherlock noticed John was a bit anxious, a slight trembling back in his hand."Are you feeling alright, John?" Now that the case was over, Sherlock was a starting to feel a bit guilty. An ex-soldier with PTSD was not the best subject for experiments with drugs that produce high anxiety. 

John turned on Doctor mode. "I'm feeling anxious, I am concerned that I might have a panic attack, if i start to feel unsafe. I wouldn't mention it, but I would hate it if I hurt you because I lost control. How are you feeling? Don't use the term "Fine". Be specific."

Sherlock smirked, "I am not 100% recovered, 90% is closer. I confess a bit of anxiety about driving, which is highly unusual for me, therefore suspect."

John nodded and was about to speak, but Sherlock interrupted.

"When I was in talking to Chip and Sandy, just now..."

"Gary and Billy?" John smiled.

"...The owners," Sherlock continued, "offered us a free weekend, if we cared to stay. Double bed room, all meals on the house. And some sort of special tub with jets of water, spraying around and about..." Sherlock gestured spray with his fingers.

"Jacuzzi?" John asked. 

"No, I wanted to ask you first." Sherlock answered.

"What?" they both asked at the same time and started to giggle.

Sherlock surprisingly, recovered first. "I think we better stay, obviously, we have reached the silly stage of recovery."

John nodded agreement, since he was laughing so hard he couldn't speak and Sherlock egged him on by making scary dog noises, between deep chuckles. 

.oOOo.

After laughing most of their residual anxiety away, they accepted Gary and Billy's kind offer, and took off to explore the moors in the bright light of day. The views were breathtaking. Spare green grass and dwarfed wildflowers were waving in the constant breeze. Rock outcroppings gave the place an otherworldly feeling. And the wild Tors, ancient rock formations that looked like a giant's child had played at stacking rocks and then been called in to supper.

The clean air and lonely landscape worked wonders on the two city boys. It wasn't long before they were taking pictures of each other. John especially liked one of Sherlock on top of a rock formation face to the wind, his coat open, sweeping behind him like a cape. Sherlock secretly took a picture of John examining a toad, his face like a young boy's full of joy and wonder.

Sherlock took John's hand, (after he put down the toad and wiped his hands on his jeans), and they walked silently to the edge of a hollow, much like the hollow of the hound. It was the time of the afternoon when birds are seeking their last meal of the day and the slanting rays of the sun make every green thing glow with an inner light. They would soon be turning back. They sat for a moment on a bench-like rock large enough for two.

It had been such a lovely day, John hated to spoil it by talking seriously to Sherlock. But he knew this was a golden opportunity to have Sherlock's full attention. And some things needed to be said.

"Sherlock, you do know that you are my friend, right? We are so lucky to be friends and lovers."

"John, I'm so sorry, I made you angry, when I said I had no friends..."

"No, Sherlock, no apologies, case, fear drugs, I understand. I just want you to erase the idea that you don't have friends from your subconscious, if you can. Friendless Sherlock does not exist anymore. He will never exist again."

Sherlock, smiled and raised John's hand to his lips for a brief kiss.

"I will update that information to my hard drive, John."

John hesitated a moment, but decided to continue.

"Friend Sherlock is well established now. Lover Sherlock, is, well confusing the hell out of me."

Sherlock took a moment to gather his thoughts. 

"I do love you, John, but my greatest fear is causing you harm because you love me. Therefore I take the cowards way out. I ignore, deny and do nothing. You can not understand this because you are not a coward, You are the bravest man I know. I truly envy you, John. I envy you your bravery. The proof of this is how you professed your love first, and how you are not afraid to love me, and mine is a dangerous love."

"If I'm as brave as you say, then I would enjoy a dangerous love, don't you think? I would crave it."

At the word 'crave' Sherlock met John's gaze. John's eyes were glowing in the dabbled light from the trees. A fierce unfaltering glow that made Sherlock's heart beat faster. "What have I done," Sherlock thought,"to deserve such a love as this?" he could not answer. He could only reach out for a kiss. The kiss was all that there was, fears melted into a place where only love existed. Fearless, strong love. Love stronger than any fear, so strong time could not erase it. 

They kissed till the sun began to set on the moors. Casting strange and chilling spells. Turning innocent natural shapes, into dark moving shadows. Still holding hands, they returned to Cross Keys. The coming night had made them both anxious again. But when they finally broke apart they found themselves ushered into a lovely dinner complete with a complementary bottle of the Inn's finest wine, not scary at all.

.oOOo.

The room was just as tasteful as dinner. The decor was a step above your average country inn. The room was done in blacks and grays with a shot of red here and there. John thought Sherlock looked good in this room, all cheekbones and contrasts. Sherlock thought John looked, well dangerous, as he pulled off his jacket and shoes, and jumped on the double bed, knocking carefully arranged and coordinated pillows everywhere.

Sherlock hung up his coat, and examined the room. There was a gift basket filled with fruits, sweets and expensive bottled water on a coffee table between two wing-backed chairs. The bathroom had a chair and small table made of wicker and the infamous bathtub. And of course the bed with John in it. The thought was making him feel panicky. "Sherlock." John called, and Sherlock jumped. "Hand me that old notebook out of my bag. Ta."

Sherlock handed him the notebook. It had become rather an obsession with John, reading and re-reading the poetry in that book. Sherlock thought John might be doing research of a writing kind. Sherlock could understand obsessive research.

Sherlock had settled in one of the wing-backed chairs. John looked through the notebook for a minute or two, then got off the bed to sit next to Sherlock.

"Listen to this, Sherlock."

"John I must tell you I am not easily seduced by archaic poetry."

John looked a bit shocked.

"Seduced? I'll have you know, Sir Sherlock, that if you were seduced by John Watson, you wouldn't be able to speak, let alone listen to poetry."

Sherlock settled in to listen, and ponder what John might do to seduce him.

"Now listen, you posh git!" John read out-loud:

From an oily puddle of the darkest dark  
Dripping hands rise to grip your heart.  
Eyes grow wide as a face appears  
The deathly skull of the ancient one, Fear.

Fear awakes in yellow fog and mist  
Around your limbs it entwines and twists.  
Till you stand immobile, unable to run.  
Frozen in place till Fear’s deed is done.

Flickering lights on the moor at night  
Change to demons outside your sight.  
Footsteps heard on the rocky Tor  
Fuel your nightmares forever more.

Ghastly shapes and shadows of doom  
Transform even the friendliest room.  
Torture and horrid dreams of death  
Challenge your senses and take your breath.

Fear can bind even a brilliant mind.  
Holding back, trembling, afraid to be kind.  
For kindness kills the fearsome doubt.  
Suddenly there is nothing to worry about.

Fear can not resist the game  
Two humans play, it’s always the same.  
Conquering Fear is not done alone.  
It takes two hearts that love has grown.

Fear can not live where love is confessed.  
It can not continue its frightful quest.  
For words of love dissolve Fear’s hold.  
Two true loving hearts are forever bold.

"Do you see, Sherlock?"

"You mean the poem is similar to our present situation?" asked Sherlock.

"Yes! Yes...this means something Sherlock, like a message sent through time." John said excitedly.

"John, I think you may have been affected by the drug more than I feared."

"More than you feared? You thought I might have a long term adverse affect, but you still tried to drug me?"

"It wasn't in the sugar, John!"

Sherlock and John were standing now, faces red, voices raised, and breathing hard.

"You didn't know that! You were wrong!"

"Why are you angry, you forgave me!"

"I don't Know!" John shouted.

John grew quiet, and began to shake,

"Sherlock, I'm so afraid."

Sherlock recognized the symptoms of a pending panic attack. John was taking shallow breaths, acting irrationally, but there was something different. This wasn't about the past. It was about the future. Their future.

Sherlock took John in his arms. John held on tightly. "What are you afraid of, John?" he asked quietly.

"Losing you, never having you, you pushing me away till I have to go. You forgetting me. You moving on. You."

"John, I'm afraid too. Afraid of hurting you, of you hurting yourself over me. Afraid of not being able to love you like you need me to. Afraid of losing you to someone who actually deserves you."

"We are so fucked, Sherlock." said John.

"I agree completely." said Sherlock.

Sherlock leaned away slightly to look at John's heartbreaking smile.

"Let's talk about it in the fancy tub, shall we?" Sherlock offered.

"Let's" John agreed.

John and Sherlock talked long into the night. They talked and giggled after looking at each other naked for the first time. They talked while caressing each other in the sudsy warm water. John tried to get Sherlock to listen while Sherlock played with the water jets. Sherlock listened while John spoke of his war wounds, real and psychosomatic, about how he couldn't have children, about how difficult it was for him to become aroused. John listened while Sherlock told about his traumatic experience as a young boy with one of Mycroft's schoolmates who abused him sexually under threat of hurting Mycroft. Neither of them had ever talked of these things to anyone before.

They were fearless as they decided what they would do now. A storm was raging on the moor. The rain beating against the roof, the wind howling like fear itself. But they were safe and warm in each others arms, in a double bed made for a couple. They decided to keep their relationship hidden from everyone, until there came a time when it could no longer be used against them. They decided to wait until that time to consummate their love. Sherlock agreed to couples therapy and John to look into available treatments, when the time was right . They decided to be secretly engaged, and totally committed to each other. They promised to marry and not even death would part them.

And as they were falling asleep, they each made a vow which they did not share.

Sherlock vowed he would do anything to keep John safe from Moriarty.

John vowed he would do anything to keep Sherlock safe from Moriarty and from himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. How am I doing?
> 
> Make a comment get a wish!


	19. Many Happy Returns

Simpson's Grand Cigar Divan, The Strand, London, England, 1883.

In a velvet lined private dining room at Simpson's, three Victorian gentlemen wearing their very best formal evening wear, have met on the pretense of wishing the fourth gentleman a happy birthday. But the conversation had taken a very different turn.

Arthur Conan Doyle, Oscar Wilde, Sherlock Holmes, and John Watson, were smoking cigars. And taking leisurely sips from glasses poured from the ancient and cobwebby bottles Holmes had procured in honor of his Watson's day of birth.

Arthur was speaking."I wish there was another way, I hate to see such fine men, and good friends leave London."

Oscar answered. "I think they must, Arthur, they are in a dangerous business. They can't turn away criminal masterminds and soulless blackmailers with a clever remark or witticism, like I do my critics. Plus they are a couple, and in love. I'm afraid they have sealed their doom."

Sherlock laughed. "I agree, Wilde, that we are in danger, but you speak of my beloved and elderly Cousin's bee farm, like it is the passage to the underworld. I assure you, it is more like paradise."

"Ah, but it is not London! What will you do? Your mind will rot in a fortnight, and I hear they speak French all the time, not just to impress the waiters." Oscar leaned back, enjoying the laughter of his friends.

John smiled at the banter. He felt a bit awed at the assemblage of such great men for his benefit. Unlike Holmes he had no happy memories of lavender farms in the spring and warm summer evenings filled with the cicada's song. John was leaving London. He was already missing the fog with the slight scent of the sea, and his warm hearth at Baker Street.

"Seriously, Oscar...

Oscar interrupted his somber friend with, "Life is too important to be taken seriously, Arthur."

"Oscar." Arthur lifted his eyebrows and tilted his head.

"Oh very well, Arthur." Oscar addressed John. "I or should i say Arthur and I have a plan."

John and Sherlock exchanged looks, but Sherlock said, "Go On"

"Well, when you return, when you write up your next case, Watson..."

"Oh, I will not write any more, I am to blame for our present predicament because I made Holmes a public figure." John stated.

"See here, Watson!" cried Arthur.

"Don't be absurd, you must continue..." cried Oscar.

"No, my dear Watson, you are wrong." said Sherlock quietly, all eyes were drawn to him.

"You took me from foolishly playing with people's lives for my own selfish needs, to actually doing something I am proud of. A Consulting Detective whose exploits are worthy of the attention of the talented John Watson, Soldier, Doctor, Poet, Writer and Partner. I would not have you stop writing for the world. I will make this world safe for you to write in if it's the last thing I do. A life lived in fear, my dear..."

"Is a life half-lived." John finished.

Oscar took a sip of his drink and leaned forward. His usual demeanor of a lighthearted rogue, changed before their eyes to one of concerned friend. "When you return , Watson, you will take a wife, on paper and in real life." No one laughed they all listened attentively. I can find you a woman, or you may find someone you trust, who would not mind being your wife in front of the world, Believe me, it has been done many times before, by so called spinsters, who never married because men were never their idea of bliss. You will marry such a woman, Watson. Set up a practice and a house. Perhaps change your name slightly, use say, James instead of John. James Watson will marry Jane so and so. The marriage will not be real in any sense. But to the world and snooping British officials or reporters you will be wed. Or if you prefer Holmes can use one of his disguises and marry you. That might work." Oscar leaned back and became the rogue again. "Might marry you myself, Watson! But there would surely be talk then."

John looked at Holmes astounded.

"I will give your plan thought, Wilde," said Sherlock, we may change a thing or two. My cousin is in the secret service in France, he is always asking me to take his place. He would be able to provide all sorts of documents, if we marry in France."

"We, Holmes?" John could not believe that were all serious. But their caring faces convinced him otherwise. 

"Yes, I could pose as your wife. Show up from time to time so the postman and neighbors could get a look at me. I could be your French wife, dreadfully shy, not able to speak English and with a habit of returning to ma maman in France at the drop of a baguette." 

"Oh, this does sound like fun! May I assist the bride with her trousseau?" said Oscar. 

Arthur giggled at the thought of Holmes in a Paris gown."I will assist you in writing descriptions of married life. My dear wife is an angel, and I will lend her temperament and persona to our first Mrs. Watson. We will also confuse the readers with vague dates and innuendos about Holmes and women, or we could make him above it all. What do you think, Watson?" 

John looked around, "I think you are all insane, and that i must have gone through the looking glass again! I also think I am the luckiest man in London, to have so many dear, clever, brave, and insane friends with my welfare at heart." He took up his glass, "To France, French wives, and Friends! Cheers!" They all drained their glasses. 

"Many Happy Returns, Watson!" said Oscar Wilde. 

>oOOo.

Much later that evening, John sat up in bed, watching his beloved sleeping soundly. Sherlock's spent naked body draped around john in a haphazard way, all limbs and dark curls. They had made love and Sherlock had taken great care to give John the time and attention he needed to forget his traumatic past and become one with his lover. And John made sure his genius observed only his lover's moans and sweet encouraging words. John loved Sherlock so much it brought a joyful tear to his eye. He looked over to where his new leather notebooks and a beautiful gold pen lay on the nightstand, birthday presents from Sherlock. Sherlock had said "A gold pen for my golden love, and more of those tatty army notebooks for you to fill in France." John smiled. He reached for his old notebook and new pen, he wrote for he could not sleep.

 

When you asked me to go to France with you  
I did not know what I should do.  
I nodded. smiled, said I understood  
But I was planted where I stood.  
I could not move to the left or the right  
Leaving London gave me such a fright.

A fear gripped my beating heart  
I felt myself being ripped apart.  
I tried to clear my aching head  
To analyze this fear and dread,  
Why should this invalid soldier brave  
Refuse the love and the peace that I crave?

You told me of your childhood charmed  
In Avignon, and your Oncle’s bee farm.  
It seemed like dawn in paradise  
I should jump at the chance, never think twice.  
You said your cousines would always protect  
Their Sherlock Holmes who was a Vernet.

I knew you were right, no more to discuss  
My writing attempts have made us famous.  
Your bitter enemies found a way in  
With blackmail and curses our mornings begin.  
We carefully control our actions and then  
On Mrs. Hudson’s watch all rumors end.

But when they threatened Dear Mrs. Hudson  
I knew I must protect her like any good son.  
And when those Bastards killed little Pip  
The time for inaction was definitely up.  
I would face prosecution, be accused of this crime  
Before I would ever let harm come to mine.

I walked alone all the afternoon  
Watching smiling couples stroll and soon  
I found myself wishing that you were my wife  
I would know what to do, how to live my life.  
I laughed at the image of you by my side  
A blushing and radiant new Bride.

If you were a woman I would not fear  
I would walk with pride and call you, My Dear.  
I suddenly felt ashamed to be  
An Englishman who claimed to see  
The good in all creatures, great and small  
But had no tolerance for our love at all.

Oh, what can we do, My Heart, My Love?  
In stone wrought decrees from heaven above  
We are told we are sinners, demons, not men.  
Forever condemned by our fellows, Amen.  
And I agreed through ignorance and hate  
Until I met you my tormented soul’s mate.

Oh, why do we appoint ourselves the judge?  
Over our fellow beings we hold a grudge.  
What harm could a world of love perform  
Where tolerance, compassion were the norm.  
When Adam ate of the Knowledge Tree  
We learned to judge indiscriminately.

Oh, that is the evil that twists and warps  
Forcing all creatures to follow one course,  
One that was planned by a prejudiced hand  
And made the law in all the Land.  
One must only do what is good in the eyes  
Of the privileged few, or be despised.

My Love, I will go to France with you.  
Declare our love like I fear to do.  
I will relinquish my fears and woes  
And follow you where ever you go,  
For I love you now and always will  
Till my beating heart becomes quiet and still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Oscar had the same publisher and had dinner with him one evening. Arthur called it a "Golden Evening". I wish he had written more about it. It's something I love to imagine. After the dinner, came Sign of the Four and Mary Morstan. I like to think that was Oscar Wilde's idea.
> 
> Thank you for the kudos! I really appreciate all those who are reading this story. i hope you are enjoying it! Love to all!


	20. The Vision in the Mirror

Outside St. Bart's Hospital, London, England, 2012.

John had been standing in the cold rain for over an hour. Watching Sherlock's blood run into the gutter. A Cabbie pulled up. London Cabbies knew people standing in the rain outside of St. Bart's probably needed a ride. John looked up to the rooftop. With a vague idea he might see an angel. A dark angel with dark wings that would let him fly...

John got in the cab."221B Baker Street". He barely got the destination out. The Cabbie didn't talk. He knew that look. "Best get the poor bloke home," he thought, "somebody he loved just died."

John told Mrs. Hudson the news. She held him like she was his own Mother, as he cried the first heartbreaking tears of grief. She made them tea, like the stalwart English women she was. She made him drink and eat a warm scone. Then she sent him upstairs to change out of his wet clothes. Only when she heard John ascend the 17 steps did she enter her own bedroom, close the door, lie on the bed and sob for the loss of her funny little boy.

John hung up his jacket, sat in his chair, kicked of his wet shoes and socks and leaned back. He stayed that way for eight hours going over and over in his mind all that had happened in the last few days. His emotions ran from anger to remorse, to despair. overwhelming pain, and back to anger. Anger at Sherlock for falling, anger at Mycroft for not being smart enough to stop Sherlock's fall, and anger at himself for not taking Sherlock and filling him so full of his love that Sherlock would never dream of falling.

After sixteen hours of tears and the worst pain he ever felt, he rose and retrieved two things from the bedroom. The old poetry book and his now loaded gun. He stopped at the kitchen for a glass, a candle, matches and a bottle of whiskey. To drink a toast, to his beloved Sherlock. He decided he could not live without his heart, and Sherlock had that. He decided he would cross over to where Sherlock was now, even if it was the gates of hell and take back his heart, pulling Sherlock back with him. And if they could never return? That was OK with him. As long as he had his lover, his partner, his Sherlock, he could endure hell or seek heaven. But he could not live without him.

He would shoot himself at dawn, it was dark now, but he would not check the time. He lit the candle, for some reason he wanted to read those old poems by candlelight. Pretending he was in the past for a while, letting Victorian John's words of love and honor send him onward to his own love. He poured a full glass of whiskey. downed it and poured another while his throat burned and the whiskey numbed his mind a bit. The amber fluid sparkled in the candlelight. He drank some more and picked up the notebook. John caressed the soft leather cover. He slowly turned it over absently stroking the spine and the back. This notebook felt like a lifeline. The last connection between Sherlock and himself. The history of lovers in 221B. 

John's tears began to fall again onto the treasured book. He wondered if Victorian John's tears were part of the book along with his words of love. John flipped open the back cover and felt the leather there which was not stained by life and tears. He felt something hard under the leather. He slipped his hand under the inside jacket and pulled out a coin. He looked at the coin in the flickering light. It wasn't a coin, but a button. An old metal button completely flat. He rolled it between his fingers. he liked the feel of it. It probably belonged to Victorian John or Victorian Sherlock. He smiled a bit remembering his Morphine induced dreams, and his Sherlock telling him he loved him in the hospital room, at St. Bart's. St. Bart's... 

John sprang to his feet, just to fall to his knees."Sherlock! Sherlock! My love. Where are you? Where are you? Please come home...Please let this be a dream...please...please...Sherlock...Sherl... " his sobs filled the room. 

He would not wait. He'd do it now. He grabbed his gun. 

"Doctor Watson!" there was someone in the room. John quickly looked around. No one. 

"Doctor Watson, if you would kindly put down the revolver. I should like to have a word with you, if convenient." 

John stood and looked around slowly. He heard a voice. A deep baritone like Sherlock's but not Sherlock's tone. 

The candlelight was reflected in all the glass in the room. John saw an odd movement by the mantel and looked up at the mirror above. 

There in the mirror was Sherlock. "No, not my Sherlock." thought John "Victorian Sherlock." 

"Doctor Watson!" John jumped at the voice coming from the form in the mirror. "Please put down the revolver, it is annoying me." 

John complied, if this was an hallucination, he wanted it to stick around."I haven't drunk nearly enough for something this vivid." He thought. 

"Doctor Watson, allow me to introduce myself, Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. The only..." 

"Only one in the world, I know." John smiled despite himself. 

Victorian Sherlock smiled back. John's heart skipped a beat. Sherlock's smile. The one only meant for him was on this illusions face. 

"What do you want from me!" John cried. "Are you here to torment me? Some sick answer to prayer?" 

"I am not in the habit of visiting the future, my dear Sir, I am quite content where I am with my Watson. But you seemed to have called me to 221b by some means. Obviously you are in great distress." Victorian Sherlock looked around the room and spotted the notebook."Ah, yes, John's poems. I'm so glad they survived. I always wanted them to be published instead of those romanticized adventures he loved to write. Ever heard of them? "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes?" John shook his head mesmerized by the vision in the mirror."Yes, well, I suppose, they did not withstand the passing of time. But the book, it must have drawn me to you in your hour of need. John will like that. He'll write another poem about it, how very nice." 

"Are you still together then?" John was under Victorian Sherlock's spell. 

"Oh, yes, eternal vows and all that love making, powerful thing love. Most powerful force in the universe. We shall never part, my Watson and I. What's that in your hand?" John had forgotten the button, he raised it so Victorian Sherlock could see. 

"My Watson's button! I wondered where that had gone. I kept it in my breast pocket for years! A souvenir of our first encounter with Professor Moriarty." 

"Moriarty?" John cried. "You had a Moriarty as well?" 

"My greatest nemesis and my greatest triumph, Moriarty. Doctor. Are you facing this Napoleon of crime also?" 

Victorian Sherlock stopped and gave John the deducing look, John knew so well. "You are about to commit suicide. You haven't slept, you've witnessed something horrible. A Death? You're a Doctor, an Army Doctor, why would a death cause you to want to end your... Oh, Doctor Watson, I'm so sorry, my futuristic counterpart has made the mistake I almost made. I truly am sorry." 

"What are you talking about? What mistake? Tell me what you know! Let me see my Sherlock! Can you? Can You? Sherlock!" John noticed the background of 221b, circa 1895, was starting to fade. The huge piece of Victorian furniture with all its cupboards and frilly carvings behind Victorian Sherlock was melting away. But Victorian Sherlock was smiling at John, his tone happy, yet concerned. 

"My dear Doctor, it is my great pleasure to inform you that Sherlock, your Sherlock faked his death to save your life. Misguided fool. Sherlock Holmes, my dear Doctor Watson, is not dead!" 

John's vision was going black at the edges. And as Victorian Sherlock faded back to flickering candlelight, John Watson for the first and last time in his life, fainted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor John! I'll try to get him some help soon. I was inspired by the scene with John sitting alone in his chair with his shoes off. The photography in Sherlock is so great, little scenes like this one say so much without words. While studying this scene I kept wondering about the bare feet. They made John look vulnerable, like he couldn't stand to finish undressing and go to bed. It made him look cold and lonely. But I asked myself, why bare feet? Then it hit me. He had been standing in the rain looking at where Sherlock had fallen. His socks were soaked! Brilliant! I don't know if they thought about it, but if they did, WoW!
> 
> Thanks to all who are following, and thanks for the Kudos!


	21. The Missing Years

The Vernet Harmas, Serignan, Vaucluse, France, 1883 -1886. (The Missing Years)

John and Sherlock boarded the train at Victoria Station and began their French Adventure. It was a long trip, but they were excited about starting a new life, free from the cares that had weighed on their minds, and free from the social morays that kept their love a prisoner in England. They had tied up all loose ends. Mrs. Hudson was staying on as caretaker of 221b till their return. Wiggins and some of the other older Irregulars were to help her. Wiggins was to start an apprenticeship with Lestrade running errands and such, but also learning how to fill out forms and bookkeeping. (Wiggins wanted to be a Copper, Doctor Watson wanted him to be educated in business school. This was Sherlock's compromise). Wiggins also took charge of The Major, much to his joy. Doctor Conan Doyle was executor of a bank account set aside for caring for the needs of The Irregulars and 221b. He also volunteered to care for any injured boy for free. He took the task to heart and began patrolling Baker Street every Saturday, his Doctor's bag filled with his daughter's attempts at "making biscuits for the poor boys tea." 

John was going over their schedule. "Victoria to Dover then the train ferry, the Fleche D'or, the Golden Arrow." John looked up to see if Sherlock noticed his attempt at speaking French. Sherlock smiled and continued to smoke his pipe. "The ferry to Calais then another train to Gare d'Avignon-Centre, where your cousines, hopefully, meet us and then on to your Oncle's mas in Orange." John was tired out just reading it off.

When the train had settled into the Fleche D'or, John and Sherlock got up to stretch their legs. They leaned on the ferry's railing watching England's white cliffs and greenery fade into the foggy sea. John sighed. "Tell me about your family Sherlock, I'm looking forward to meeting them." Now it was Sherlock's turn to sigh.

"The time I spent with my cousins were the happiest I have ever had. Except of course, these last years with you." John wished like he always did when he traveled with Sherlock that he could hold his hand or kiss his cheek, but a smile would have to do.

Sherlock smiled back."My Mother sent Mycroft and myself to her Vernet relatives every Summer, sometimes even longer. My Father loved to travel and we traveled quite a bit as children, but Summers in Avignon and Orange were golden. My cousin Honore' and his wife Simone were loving and dutiful parents. Honore' worked for the French equivalent of our Secret Service, and Simone taught me to play the violin. Oncle Jean, everyone called him Oncle, he was actually Honore's brother and my cousin, had a mas, a farmhouse, in Orange. He was the one who taught me about keeping bees, well, him and The Little Professor, J.Henri Fabre, a dear friend of the Vernets. The Professor lives on a harmas, a rocky farm, in Serignan. That is where we will live, right next door to Monsieur Fabre who is engaged to my favorite cousin Marianna."

John tried to take it all in. These names, so familiar to Sherlock, may well be his new friends, even his new family.

"Marianna is the one who so kindly invited us." said John.

"Yes, she is very dear to me, like my little sister. Marianna has twin older siblings, Michelle and Michel. Mycroft and Michel were very close as children. Michel is a Veterinarian and Michelle an artist."

.oOOo.

The train from Calais pulled into the beautiful Gare d'Avignon- Centre. The train station was magnificent. Medieval castles and an azure blue port gave a feeling of antiquity to the town. They were met by two cheering, happy people, yelling in French, "Sherlock! John! Ici! Ici! Oh, nous vous avons manque'!

Sherlock ran and took up the beautiful dark haired young lady and spun her around. "Ma petite soeur!" Sherlock was covered with happy tears and kisses from Marianna. Honore' pulled Sherlock into a deep hug. "My boy, my boy! Retour a' durer!" Sherlock was kissed on each cheek by his elderly cousin. His half- English- half French lost in joyous laughter.

John looked on more than a little astonished, and quite moved at the scene. His Sherlock looked so young and free, his face beaming as he rattled off French at an amazing pace. Complete with extra cheek kisses, and hand gestures. John felt terribly out of place and very, very British.

A tall, lean, blonde man stepped away from the Vernet carriage, where he was attending to the horses, and walked towards John. John was shocked at how much he looked like Sherlock. The young man offered his hand to John."I am honored to meet you, Doctor Watson. I am Michel, Marianna's Brother. The Vernets welcome you to Avignon, or will when they remember their manners." he laughed."Papa, attend!"

Honore' and Marianna approached John. John took Marianna's extended hand and brushed it against his lips. "Enchante' mademoiselle." said John.

Marianna looked at Sherlock. "So handsome and polite, a real brave English Soldier, a Doctor, a hero! What on earth are you doing with my crazy Sherlock? Ah, but Sherlock is adorable is he not?" John looked more than a little flustered. Marianna's laugh was like little silver bells chiming.

"I just tease you, my dear John, welcome, welcome home!" She through her arms around him with abandon and kissed him on the cheeks three times. Honore' patted him on the back."You are in my home now, John, you and Sherlock are safe and very, very, welcome." Honore' said with sincerity and pride.

And John finally felt it. Safety, warmth, family. Something he thought he could only feel with Sherlock.

Sherlock took John's hand right there in the station, in public, in the streaming sunlight, in front of his family. He kissed his cheek slowly, once, twice, three times.Then briefly kissed his astonished smile. "Welcome to my home, John."

 

 

Our Little Harmas

Our little harmas in Serignan  
Is a place of which we have grown fond.  
The French think we are crazy Englishmen  
To live on land so rocky and barren.  
But our neighbor “The Little Professor” agrees  
It is the prettiest place that ever could be.

The breeze brushed Rosemary on a sunny day  
Literally takes our breath away,  
And when we step step among the wild Thyme  
The spicy scent is so sublime.  
The cherry trees promise their fruit  
But the blackbirds flutter gathering their loot.

The bees from our many hives  
Are working happily for their lives.  
Our bees never seem to buzz or sting.  
Must be the gentle touch we bring  
Who knew that nature and we were one.  
Who knew that we could be nature’s sons.

The peace and plenty of the countryside  
Has taken our hearts and that is no lie.  
London we will always miss,  
But we have grown to love our public kiss  
Hugs and laughter in bright sunshine  
Our life has become a life divine.

But French cafe’ will never do  
Expatriates still must have their brew.  
The darling cousins can not understand  
Why we look so sad with cups in our hands.  
A parcel arrived which we opened with glee,  
Finally, our order of Earl Gray Tea!

 

John and Sherlock fell into life among the Vernets, with ease and grace. Days in the sun. Close to nature. Family meals and gatherings. New friends and old stories. They had privacy at their harmas. And the freedom from fear and prosecution was as intoxicating as the Honey Wine that Oncle Jean made.

Sherlock was still Sherlock and when news got around that Honore's amazing boy was back, the secret service got in touch with Honore'. A case!

The Adventure of Le Serveur de la Mort

Idyllic days under sunny skies  
Had taken its toll, I must surmise,  
For Holmes has told me ” The game is afoot,  
Dress quickly, I will explain en route.”

La Securite Nationale in Paris  
Was just a little bit embarrassed  
There was a murderer on a spree  
On who it was they could not agree.

They knew that Holmes had settled in  
With his French Vernet kin.  
They took advantage of Honore’, the old man,  
Begged for Holmes and I to lend a hand.

The killer was called, Le Serveur de la Mort,  
He killed British tourists to settle some score.  
If a cup of tea was ordered by a visiting Brit  
He would poison the brew with Arsenic.

A simple plan, a teetotaler I played  
While Holmes, a waiter, nearby stayed.  
At a street-side cafe’ I would order tea  
Holmes watched out for the poisoner and me.

I grew so thirsty not drinking a sip  
I ordered water, brought the glass to my lip.  
Holmes jumped to the table and grabbed my arm,  
Not the tea, but the water would do me harm.

The waiter who poisoned the water was near  
He looked towards Holmes and I with fear.  
I sprang at him to bring him down.  
He had a knife! We were on the ground!

He got me good on my arm and my cheek,  
Before Holmes could drag him to his feet  
And hit him with the poisoned water jug.  
The cheering crowd I met with a shrug.

Holmes cleaned my cheek and called the Gendarme.  
He wrapped my wound with growing alarm.  
He was so pale, he was starting to panic  
The sight of my blood had made him frantic.

“I am not hurt badly!” I proclaimed.  
“And you are certainly not to blame,  
We saved some fellow Englishman  
From a painful death in a foreign land.”

I felt a bit faint, I wanted to rest.  
We took a cab to our Parisian nest.  
Holmes sent for a Doctor, he ordered food and wine,  
The hotel staff could not be more kind.

Things finally settled, I was comfortable.  
Holmes told me his thoughts, remarkable.  
Le Serveur de la Mort was the bastard son  
Of a very rich and famous Englishman.

I tried to follow, the wine addled my brain,  
It also quite effectively eased my pain.  
I saw his concern, he had not touched a drop  
I took his hand and made him stop.

“Thank you for letting me into your life  
Our Adventures are worth a wound from a knife,  
I am so grateful, I could not bear  
Losing you and the life that we share.”

Holmes closed his eyes, took a calming breath  
What he said next I will never forget.  
“Without you my life would be over and done,  
For what good is a Holmes without his Watson.”

 

Fever Dreams

On a case in Paris, I injured my arm.  
Weary, I traveled home to Serignan.  
Although Holmes took care of my every whim,  
I succumbed to infection in the offended limb.  
I heard the cousins crying out in despair  
“Pauvre John! Courageux John!” filled the air.  
I smiled at the outpouring of sympathy  
They supplied me with pillows and herbal tea.  
But a fever drove me out of my head  
I remember weird dreams as I tossed on my bed.

In the first I was back at Baker Street.  
Dear Mrs. Hudson I expected to greet  
But at the door was a strange little man  
With a mathematics book in his hand.  
He was a Professor with a maddening stare.  
He wore a gown like graduates wear.  
The book he held began to grow tall  
The pages turned into a waterfall  
I fell into a chasm and started to drown.  
The mad professor looked on with a frown.

I woke with a start shivering with chills  
I still thought I was drowning until  
A soft voice told me ’twas only a dream.  
It felt so real I wanted to scream!  
A warming drink was put to my mouth  
I still felt like I needed to shout,  
“Holmes stay away from the man with the book!”  
But Holmes just gave me a comforting look,  
“I am right beside you, you will come to no harm.”  
I remembered the fever and my injured arm.

The second dream came in the night  
My head was hot, my throat was tight.  
I dreamed about a winding stair  
I was looking for Holmes, but he was not there.  
I climbed the stairs for hours upon hours.  
‘Twas in some sort of medieval tower.  
Every seventeen steps there was a rose red  
I gathered them all, they covered my bed.  
My bed was a coffin at the tower’s top  
In the coffin was Holmes, my breathing did stop.

“Breathe, breathe, John Watson!” I heard my name.  
Holmes’ voice was urgent and tinged with pain.  
I thought it was best to do as I was told  
A cloth on my chest was damp and cold,  
I took a deep breath and opened my eyes.  
Holmes and the cousins breathed a relieved sigh  
I felt exhausted, but the fever had broke  
I smiled and attempted a feeble joke.  
Holmes asked me a question when the cousins had gone  
“Did you have fever dreams?” I said, ” I had none.”

 

John took a while to recover. Marianna came to stay and care for them, making delicious meals and keeping the place tidy. And if she sometimes disappeared with her fiance' Monsieur Fabre for long nature walks, John and Sherlock pretended not to notice.

John found Serignan a perfect place for poetry writing. Marianna was his biggest fan. He would often read to Sherlock and Marianna in the evening. She called him "Le soldat poete", and begged for love poems. It was easy to write of love in such an atmosphere.

If Not For Your Love

The sky is as blue as a blue ruby  
A few clouds add white for contrast.  
The breeze blows the clouds out to sea.  
The scenery changes thrillingly fast.  
Every morn I thank the sky above,  
I would not see beauty if not for your love.

The birds sing in the cherry trees  
The blossoms raining through the branches.  
The pink and white flowers cover me  
Like stolen kisses in Maypole dances.  
Every day I thank the sun above,  
I would not see beauty if not for your love.

A million stars explode in the sky  
They make me feel insignificant.  
A slow yellow moon rises by and by  
Casting a shadow show magnificent.  
Every eve I thank the moon above,  
I would not see beauty if not for your love.

You come to me with quiet sighs  
Floating like a cloud on a midnight breeze.  
Light from the stars shine in your eyes  
Your kisses soft blossoms of cherry trees.  
Every night I thank the stars above,  
I would not see beauty if not for your love.

The time for Marianna's wedding was approaching. She needed to travel to Paris for her trousseau. John and Sherlock accompanied Marianna and her sister Michelle on a Paris trip. Michelle and John had become fast friends. Her Bohemian ways and modern ideas and art charmed him. They were only friends of course, but Sherlock grew jealous. Causing John to have a big row with Sherlock. John walked out on him, right into the middle of Paris.

Absinthe Memory 1883

Alone in Paris I found a cafe’  
On a quiet street and made my way  
Inside to order an aperitif.  
Something smooth and a little sweet.

I asked the proprietor what I should have,  
He grabbed a bottle and with a laugh.  
Poured me a glass of Absinthe  
Also known as “The Green Fairy”.

I observed the glass and its green contents  
And the pleasant smile of my new friend.  
What harm could such a little drink do  
To a man like me whose paid his dues?

I brought the glass to my lips  
And lingered over the first sweet sip.  
It tasted of licorice and something more,  
Something I had never tasted before.

It gave me a sudden fiery glow,  
And I felt myself floating, steady and slow.  
I drank it all up and asked for another.  
My new friend looked at me with wonder.

The second glass was like the first,  
It did not quite quench my thirst.  
Too parched to speak, I pointed instead.  
The barkeep nodded then shook his head.

The third glass came and I drained it dry,  
I thought I would give conversation a try.  
But when I looked up my friend had wings!  
I wiped my eyes, I was seeing things.

The wings were green and sparkled like wine.  
Some where close a bell did chime.  
Then all of the patrons in the cafe’  
Took out little bagpipes and started to play.

They all sprouted wings, including me.  
I suddenly thought it just could not be!  
A cafe’ in Paris, fairies with wings,  
Who wanted me to dance and sing?

Well, who am I to decline a chance  
To entertain Parisians with a Scottish dance?  
I proceeded to do a Highland Fling,  
And after that I do not remember a thing.

I woke the next morning in my own bed  
With the strangest pain on top of my head.  
My friends had thankfully tracked me down,  
And got me home before a second round.

I stumbled to the kitchen barely awake.  
Bemused friends offered me coffee and cake.  
Sipping my coffee, I opened my eyes,  
I swear I saw fairies waving goodbye!

Marianna's wedding was perfect! Little did she know that Sherlock, John and all the male Vernet's had conspired to make sure the absent minded professor made it to the church on time!

John and Sherlock stood quietly at the back of the church, their hands folded in front of them in the traditional usher pose. They were waiting. When Henri and Marianna said their vows, Sherlock and John looked at each other and nodded. When Marianna and Henri exchanged rings, so did John and Sherlock, each putting on a signet ring with the initials of the other engraved on it. They had borrowed this joyous wedding day to be their own, and pledged in silence what lovers have always pledged out loud. "Till death do us part." As the bride and groom kissed. Sherlock and John returned to their usher pose, soft smiles lit their faces. The kissing would come later.

A Poem For A Wedding

A wedding day is day of culmination  
Of two lonely souls with determination,  
Following mazes and paths overgrown,  
To find each other and make each their own.

A wedding day is a day of glorious victory.  
A peace earned through fighting gallantly.  
Battling foes wrought by happenstance,  
Finding a partner for a victory dance.

A wedding day is a day of thanksgiving.  
Thankful for one who makes life worth living.  
Thankful you found a heart of pure gold.  
Humble in thanks for someone to hold.

A wedding day is a day of celebration.  
Family and friends united in exaltation  
Of the ancient rite of matrimony.  
Giving and taking the one you love only.

A wedding day is a day of mirth and gaiety.  
Highlighting the vows of great solemnity.  
Two hearts are joined making just one,  
One strong heart to face what has begun.

 

In the New Year of 1885, Sherlock accepted a position with the French Secret Service. They needed someone to reform the agency, make it more efficient and modern. And there were cases, lots and lots of cases. It would mean moving to Paris. But there was one major drawback, John could not work by his side. His French was horrible, and he was still a British Soldier. Sherlock would have to work alone. John assured Sherlock that this was too good of an opportunity to pass up. Someday they would return to their old life. So after many sad goodbyes, John and Sherlock moved to Paris. It wasn't long before Sherlock and his Sherlockian ways made him as famous in Paris as he was in London.

Lady Paris

Would I were a Parisian poet of old  
Earning his bread with a quill.  
Watching leafy parchment unfold  
With words etched black with skill.

I would live in a Parisian garret  
With French books for introspection.  
A bottle of ink, some cheese and Baguette  
Complete the scene of perfection.

I would walk the Paris Rues  
Enchanted by her joie de vivre.  
And a day spent in silence at the Louvre  
Would give back hope and a will to live.

Hear the Eiffel Tower sing to the sky above  
A song of men and iron beams.  
See the city’s daughters brimming with love  
Her sons ripe with artistic dreams.

The Lady Paris will share her wealth  
With kindred spirits from afar,  
Regardless of station, family or health  
Her bounty lines the Boulevard.

I would catch but a fleeting sight  
As she dresses for her evening affair,  
When laughter glitters in the night  
And music sparkles in the air.

Back in my garret by the candle’s glow  
Luminous dancing figures so bright  
Would leap from my pen so all would know  
Lady Paris is truly the city of light.

John had been reading French Scientific Journals to improve his grasp of the language. He was intrigued by an article by Edmond Becquerel and his son Henri. They had been experimenting with phosphorescence, and capturing the energy of the sun. John had been dabbling in photography, and had many discussions with Sherlock about the possibility of using light in medicine. "If only you could take a photograph somehow of the interior of the body, Doctors would have a fantastic diagnostic tool." John thought. The Becquerels were working in Paris, and John decided to introduce himself. After just one afternoon at a Paris cafe', he was asked to join the Becquerels in their research. Having John Watson on their team, with a Doctor's viewpoint, would be invaluable. They were interested in pursuing John's new idea of using photography for diagnosing injuries with invisible light. John dubbed this invisible light, radiation. The Becquerels were thrilled, and ordered more wine to toast their new colleague.

Solar 

Fair Nature! I could sing your name  
Forever more and never reach  
Your full amount of worth and fame.  
Never learn all you have to teach.

In your heavenly face, is the sun.  
How do I attempt to write her praise?  
At just her brilliance I am undone,  
By the fiery eye that rules our days.

I’ve seen the sun’s almighty power  
Raising fruit from tiny seed.  
Making every tree and flower  
Bloom to fill our every need.

Drying up the sudden rain,  
Hanging rainbows in the sky.  
Sending the drops back home again,  
Gives us pure water that fortifies.

If I could capture just one ray,  
I would brighten all the darkest hours.  
I could turn darkness into day  
By harnessing her solar power.

On New Years Day, 1887, John decided to return to London. Oscar had written to him offering congratulations on their private wedding and asking him to return, "The Literary Club is insipid and wearisome since you left."( Even Sherlock couldn't figure out how he had heard about the wedding. John didn't tell him that in his joy he had told, well, everyone.)

Arthur wrote every week with news from Baker Street, and begging for John and Sherlock's return. "I am lost without your reminiscences to edit." In his last letter he informed John that a practice in Kensington could be his for free, if only he would return immediately.

John was sorely tempted. Although he loved Paris, and his research work was interesting, he was dreadfully homesick. In Serignon, with the Vernets, he was happy. Having Sherlock by his side as they tended the bees was the happiest he had ever been. But in Paris, Sherlock was never home. Their rooms were cold and lonely. Sherlock was driving himself. There was always a case, always something for Sherlock to do. He was never bored. And for Sherlock it was intoxicating. John was worried about him. He had started with cocaine again, this time to keep him going at top speed. He was like a child who won't sleep because he has been given too many new toys. John felt like an afterthought. Sherlock would show up after six days of working, speaking rapid fire French, that John didn't understand. John was having a horrible time learning the language. The Becquerels spoke slowly, teaching him phrases, or resorted to using English, when speaking to John. They were considerate and respectful. But Sherlock made John feel like an idiot. Half the time John would say," Je don't understand vous and your Damn French!" And storm out the door.

After one such time, John found himself at the Eiffel Tower. It had started to shower. "Damn Paris and its damn showers." John muttered, he often muttered in Paris. No one understood his French anyway. He looked around for a cafe'. 

"I could go for a cup of tea and a scone," said John, talking softly to the pigeons, "but I must be fair and admit that I find French cafe' and pastries.. adequate on a cold wet day." John spotted a likely place and started walking towards it. Sitting by the door warm and out of the rain was Sherlock. "Damn," John addressed the pigeons again, "how does he do that?" The pigeons gave John a wide berth.

John took his place at the table for two. Sherlock leaned back. "Why did you not tell me it was time to return to London?" he said.

John smiled, Sherlock was speaking English, and his deep baritone was a balm to John's homesick heart."Ahhhh." John gave an exaggerated sigh."Sherlock, again, speak more English. Please."

Sherlock chuckled and took John's hand. "John H. Watson, I am an idiot for getting lost in the work. You and your stiff British upper lip are the most important things in my life. You, my dear Watson have married a fool."

"I wouldn't go that far, a foppish, self-centered, irritating bastard, perhaps. But a fool? No!"

"Watson!" Sherlock was shocked at John's expletive. Sherlock's features turned serious. "I must have hurt you exceedingly, for you to hurl curses at me. I am sorry."

John's heart softened at Sherlock's apology. "I am happy that you have found such rewarding work. Honore' wrote to say he heard rumors of you being awarded, The Legion of Honor."

"I care nothing for that. I would give it to Honore' so he could brag to the neighbors. What of your work, my Watson?"

"Oh, it's a fascinating concept, radiation. But any one could start up where I have left off. Now it is just tedious experiments and collating data. I don't enjoy that sort of isolated work as you do." said John.

"Sherlock, I do wish to return to London." John continued. "But you must understand, I do not wish to leave you. I will never leave you. I'll be happy to wait till you are ready, as long as I know you love me, and that we can return someday."

"You seemed so happy in Serignon? What caused the change?" Sherlock was puzzled.

John shook his head, he had to explain even the simplest emotions to his Holmes. "We were together, my love. Alone or with your dear family, we were together. My bed was never cold, my hand never without its partner, there was no where we could go where we were not surrounded in a cocoon of love. I would gladly return to Serignon with you someday when we are too old to care about work. But this is not the time."

"Here in Paris," John continued, "I am alone, without a home, without friends, without you in my bed at night. I'm afraid I am a selfish man, I don't want to share you. You are no longer married to your work, Sherlock, you are married to me!"

Sherlock nodded. "What should I do, John?" Sherlock looked as alone as John felt.

"Finish your work. Do what you need to do to leave the secret service and your clients singing your praises. Earn, The Legion of Honor, for the Vernets. And come back to me. I will be so proud of you. Prouder than I already am."

"And you ,John?"

"I will go through the looking glass again, and plan your return with our Arthur, the mad-hatter, and our Oscar, the hookah smoking caterpillar."

Sherlock through back his head and laughed. John joined him.

"You remind me, I have a present." Sherlock reached in his coat and drew out a very official looking document and handed it to John. It was in French, and John read it out-loud in English as best he could.

"The marriage certificate of J.H. Watson of London, England and Rose Vernet of Serignon, France. This is to certify that this man and this woman were married on the 15th of March 1885. They have all rights provided by the sacrament and institution of marriage. This is a legal and binding agreement before God and France."

"Rose Vernet?"

"That's me, John! Rose was a heroine of the French Revolution, I thought it appropriate. Do you like it? I could make another, it seems I have become the French government. If any one in London dares to check on it, guess who signed and witnessed the document?" John looked at the signature on the bottom of the form. "Sherlock Holmes, Chief Officer of the Secret Service" John read.

"A foolproof plan. Won't Mycroft be jealous?" said Sherlock.

John laughed till tears came. "Oh, Oscar will love this!"

Thoughts of Home

The cafe’ is dark and the talk is light  
My mind wanders till I am out of your sight.  
I am a wary stranger to all I see  
Except for you sitting across from me.

A foreigner on a foreign shore  
Striving for understanding and more.  
Will I ever feel at ease away  
From the home I left on that fateful day?

I watch you speak so fluently.  
Sparkling eyes, laughing so easily.  
You feel at home where ever you go  
I envy you more than you’ll ever know.

Home should be right here by your side.  
I truly am happy on our riotous ride.  
But now and then I long for the sound  
Of homey songs and friends all around.

Why do we ever start to roam?  
Away from all we love and home?  
Always wishing and wanting to return,  
Yearning till the heart slowly burns.

The cafe’ is quiet and the hour is late.  
I’ve lost track of time, days and dates.  
I’ll follow you anywhere you want to go,  
But I’ll hold a hope for home tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, John Watson discovered radiation and x-rays. It's not in any of the History books! 
> 
> If you'd like more details about "The Missing Years" please visit my blog,
> 
> amongyourbeesandyourbooks.wordpress.com
> 
> I have been telling the tale of Sherlock and John in France for almost a year now on my blog which I have included in this chapter, condensed quite a bit.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I love you all! Poetry Warning! Poetry Warning! Sorry, (well, not really, it was fun to write a story with poems), for the massive amount of poems, I'll reel it in next chapter. I promise.
> 
> How am I doing? Comments would be appreciated more than I can say!


	22. The Funeral of Sherlock Holmes

221B Baker Street, London, England, 2012.

Sergeant Murray, burdened with bags of slowly cooling fish & chips knocked on the front door of 221B. Mrs. Turner answered.

"We didn't order anything, Sir, I'm not paying for that!" she said rudely. Mrs. Hudson came up behind her. Clutching a handkerchief and sniffling a bit. "Oh, Mr. Murray! Did John order this? I just got in. I've been staying at Mrs.Turner's." 

"Poor thing," said Mrs.Turner, "Been in a state since she heard... well... you know... about him." She looked upstairs. "I had her round to my place gave her... you know... a little something to make her sleep." 

"More than a little, Mrs.Turner," said Mrs. Hudson feeling her head. "Did you hear Mr. Murray?" 

"Yes, on the telly, thought I'd offer my condolences and some hot food, which is getting cold. Why don't I pop on up and give some to the Good Doctor, Aye?" It wouldn't due to give himself away to these ladies. but he was desperate to see John. He had found out about Sherlock's death only a little while ago from Mycroft and Murray was furious. Even Wiggins knew before he did. Mycroft had been acting strangely and avoiding Murray for weeks. Ever since he captured Moriarty. Mycroft should have told him what was going on, he could have helped, he could have prevented this tragedy. Mycroft had informed him of the death, the funeral, date, place and time by text. He wasn't even sure it was Mycroft, could of been his bloody secretary. The text asked him to inform John, who would in turn inform Mrs. Hudson. Murray was out of his mind with worry and anger. Instead of holding his grieving partner in his arms, he was dismissed as only worthy of a brief text.

Murray stormed up the stairs."Bloody, Mycroft 'olmes!." he cursed out loud and mumbled, "On top of everything else the poor Captain is alone. Alone with a gun. Bloody, stupid, 'olmes." His blood froze when he found the door to 221B was not locked. He opened it and looked in to see John on the hearth before the fireplace, unconscious or... 

"Jesus, bloody 'ell!" Murray tossed his bags away and ran to take John's pulse. It was steady. He was breathing. Murray took in the scene. Burned out candle, half drunk bottle of booze. Gun. Loaded. He picked up the gun, put the safety back on and put it in his pocket. He looked at the brave soldier before him and thanked God something had stopped him. "I'm gonna kill ya, Mycroft 'olmes. I love ya, but I'm gonna kill ya nice and slow," he said. And set about the task of waking John up and taking care of him. "The Captain ain't gonna die on this Sergeant's watch." Murray promised. 

.oOOo. 

Murray was noisily making tea in the kitchen. John was in his chair covered with a blanket and nibbling on Murray's delicious chips. Murray had taken the gun, but said nothing. John had only offered his thanks. But that was enough. 

"I would of gotten here sooner, Captain, but that son o' bitch partner of mine, sees fit to leave me in the dark about things. I didn't know." Murray carried two cups of tea out to the sitting room. John noticed Murray perched on the arm of Sherlock's chair, and had used matching mugs from the back of the cupboard. Smart man, Murray. To see someone else in _his_ chair sipping tea from _his_ mug would have brought back the tears that were just waiting for something to set them off again. 

Murray watched John drink his tea and encouraged him to eat a bit more. 

"I've got a nice place, well, Myc and I 'ave a nice place. 187 North Gower. Lots o' room. Spare bedroom. We bought it and renovated it about 10 years ago now. We own it. It's a lot like this place, only we made it all one 'ouse, all done up new and nice. We restored the "B" flat to the way that it might have looked in Victorian times. Antiques and books. After tomorrow you're stayin' there with me. Don't even try to say no. And tonight I'm stayin' 'ere." 

John smiled at this kind old soldier. "Yes, Sergeant!" he joked. It did feel nice to be cared for. He glanced at the mirror. Something or someone wanted him alive. It was a good feeling. Someone cared. 

Murray could see John was a little better. His deathly pale color was returning to normal. He hated what he had to do next. 

_Damn you, Mycroft._

"Captain, the funeral is tomorrow, at 3 o'clock. Well, the memorial is at 3, I'm afraid Sherlock's already buried, poor, dear, soul. A car will be here at 2:30 tomorrow afternoon to pick you and Mrs. 'udson up." Murray waited. 

John froze, turning pale again. "Sherlock? Already buried?" Murray cleared his throat, tears starting in his eyes. He would get the Captain through this. 

"Yes, Mycroft 'ad 'im buried immediately, the 'eadstone 'as been put in place. I guess Myc was worried about reporters and privacy and such." 

"He should have asked me! He should have told me! I was Sherlock's partner, he knew that! I loved him, Murray. I loved him. I should of taken care of him, I should have taken better care of him..." And the tears came. 

Murray came and sat next to John wrapping his strong tattooed arms around John's shoulders, and held him while he sobbed and cried incoherent words. 

Murray and John talked for hours afterwards. It had started to rain and the sound somehow matched John's mood of anger and despair. Murray ranted about how angry he was at Mycroft, angry enough to throttle him or leave him or both. John told Murray about his vision in the mirror. Then John called his therapist who agreed to see him immediately. Murray dropped John off and ran home for clothes, things for overnight, and his best black suit for the funeral. He didn't leave John alone for a second. 

.oOOo. 

Funerals or memorial services in this case, are always so quiet. People talking in hushed whispers, shuffling of feet, little coughs and silent tears. Everyone exuding respect. If only you could hear people's thoughts in that a quiet chapel or church the noise would be deafening. 

Sherlock's memorial, such as it was, was held in a little chapel right on the cemetery grounds. The chapel was very old and very austere. A few non-denominational religious ornaments here and there. But mostly tasteful nothingness. Devoid of bright colors like the clothes of the mourners. 

There were not many mourners, John, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft and Murray. Half a dozen British officials, somehow connected to Mycroft, Friends? Not likely. Another half dozen agents, there to work or show their respects, no one could tell. And in the back row, looking red eyed and uncomfortable was Lestrade with an arm around Phillip Anderson of all people, who wouldn't be left behind and was crying openly. 

In the back leaning against the chapel door was Murray, taking it all in. He looked handsome in his best black tailored suit. His unruly hair was pulled back and tied in a black grosgrain ribbon. He had no tie and his shirt was open just enough to reveal a gold wedding ring on a gold chain. Mycroft wore his on his hand. The rings symbolized their promise to someday make it official. Murray's massive arms were crossed and the look on his face was not of respect, but of disgust. He was glaring at the back of Mycroft's head who sat alone in the front pew across from John and Mrs. Hudson. 

_What the 'ell, Myc! Sherlock deserves better than this! This isn't right. Somethin' ain't right. You are up to somethin' I can smell it. Don't want your lover to know somethin', so you close 'im off. I'll figure it out Myc, I will. I wouldn't be surprised if that casket out there is empty or filled with an enemy who got too close. I don't believe Sherlock would commit suicide. Not when he had John Watson at home. He must o' been pushed into it. Somethin ain't right. Somethin' ain't right._ He shook his head, and continued glaring at Mycroft.

Lestrade shifted uneasily in his seat. 

_I caused this. I knew Sherlock wasn't a fake. I should of taken him in protective custody and sorted it out. God, if I had... If I had._ He glanced at Anderson beside him.

Anderson had never felt such regret.

_It's all my doing, all my fault. I killed him. I killed him. Sherlock, forgive me. Sherlock forgive me._ He could hear Sherlock's voice in his head.

_Anderson, stop sniveling you are ruining my funeral._ Anderson leaned forward and sobbed into his hands. 

Mrs. Hudson was not at all pleased.

_This is awful!_ She was absently patting John's arm as she glared at Mycroft. _Sherlock would have hated this. Where are his friends?_ She looked at poor John. _Well, all the people he helped, anyway. That would fill a cathedral. Where are his parents? And he had some cousins he was fond of, I know. My ex-husband had a better service than this and that was at the chapel at the jail!_ She thought back to the service for her husband, Sherlock at her side with the devil's own grin on his handsome face. He took her out to diner after. She scolded him for making her giggle at her own husband's funeral. 

_Funerals are tedious, waste of money and time, the corpse doesn't care who's dabbing at fake tears in a black suit._

She dabbed at her real tears and smiled at the memory. She returned to glaring at Mycroft.

Mycroft was staring at the floral arrangements on either side of the small pulpit. Tasteful. But in front was a bouquet of blood red roses tied up with black lace.

_I wonder where they came from? Sarge, perhaps, he would do something outrageous like that._ He could feel Sarge's eyes boring into his head. _I hate this. I hate the whole plan. It was stupid, reckless. I am hurting Sarge, my partner, my love. Hurting John. We had just been talking about early retirement. Then we would officially get married instead of playing spies and secrets. We were going to ask John and Sherlock to stand up with us. When this is over I may not have a lover at all. Sarge may forgive me, but how will John ever forgive Sherlock? Oh, my brother what have we done?_

John was leaning forward. His hands, folded on his lap, were trembling. He was thinking about what his therapist had said when he told her about his hallucination.

_You are in shock, John. You needed to tell Sherlock what you never told him while he was alive, so you saw him in the mirror._

John closed his eyes for just a moment, but flashes of gruesome images and memories made him open them wide again.

_Sherlock knew how I felt, didn't he? Why did he do it. Why. Why. No sense, it makes no sense. Sherlock was so confused about love. He thought every one who loved him would eventually be hurt. He thought the solution was to be unlovable. But he loved me, I know he did. I know he did. Why wasn't that enough? If only... if only..._

His thoughts were interrupted by the non-denominational Minister, who came with the chapel, talking about Sherlock Holmes, a man he never knew. 

John could not focus on the Minister's words. He spoke words chosen to help with grief, but he was beyond help. Finally, the minister halted and asked if anyone would like to say a few words. John panicked. 

_An eulogy? Oh, no he couldn't, no._

He turned to Mrs. Hudson, who had been watching Mycroft turn white as a sheet. "I can't. I can't." His heartbroken sobs filled the little chapel. "Of course, dear, no one expects you too." She rubbed his back.

She looked at Mycroft again, it was his place to say something. Mycroft buried his face in his hands. The chapel was full of an awkward silence. Mrs. Hudson was about to give the eulogy herself, when strong footsteps were heard heading to the pulpit. There was a hand on John's shoulder. He looked up at Sergeant Murray. "May I say a few words, Captain?" John nodded. Mrs. Hudson relaxed.

_Now here's a proper English Gentleman, who'd of thought it to look at him._

Murray looked impressive. When he spoke, his voice, used to barking orders, was firm and authoritative. Everyone was listening. Mycroft looked up at the man he loved.

"I didn't know Sherlock Holmes as well as most of you, but I knew him for a long time. He worked for me, a bit. 'elped me put up shelves at my restaurant." 

A few people laughed a little at the image. John smiled. 

"I watched him grow from a distance. Grow from a brilliant young idiot, not carin' where 'is next meal came from." 

Lestrade nodded, memories flooding back. 

"Grow into a brilliant and lovin' man, capable of helpin' others and earnin' the love of good friends." He looked at John, and continued. "Sherlock wasn't supposed to die so soon, we can only hope wherever he is now he is at peace. I read somethin' once, written about a character in a well loved book. The writer said the character was eternal and implicit. I 'ad to look implicit up."

There was light laughter and a few smiles. 

"Implicit means to believe in somethin'. To believe in somethin' so 'ard you know it's real. Some people are callin' Sherlock a fake. But I know he was the real thing. I believe in Sherlock Holmes. The eternal and implicit Sherlock."

Murray left the pulpit and went to John saying, "Let's get you out o' 'ere, Captain. You and Sherlock, you deserve better than this." He helped John up to his feet and gave a hand to Mrs. Hudson. "Let's go, love." They helped John out of the chapel and into a waiting car ready to drive them to where Sherlock was buried. "Keys, Agent." Murray said softly to the driver. He handed Murray the keys without hesitation.

Murray never looked at Mycroft. So he never saw the tears streaming down his face. Not for the loss of a brother, but for the loss of the love of his life.

.oOOo. 

Sherlock watched as John said his tearful goodbye and made his final request, "Don't be dead." 

Sherlock knew he would fulfill that request someday, hopefully. But for now he was satisfied that no harm would come to John Watson because he was foolish enough to love Sherlock Holmes. 

Sherlock got into the waiting black car with its tinted bullet-proof windows, and made a final request of his own. "Drive by St. Bart's on the way to the airport, Agent Davis. Please." He added as an afterthought. Sherlock actually liked Agent Davis. Davis took a bullet for Mycroft , saved the Prime Minister too. That day, Sherlock had been looking for Mycroft and asked after Davis' condition. The nurse smiled and said "Oh, good a visitor, poor man's a hero and no one cares enough to visit him except his stuck-up boss." Sherlock became a regular visitor, Davis loved chess, and was a competent competitor, unlike John. 

Sherlock had been having trouble locking the door of the room of his mind palace labeled John. Everything reminded him of John. Every reminder made him lose focus and want to run home. He met John at St. Bart's. He died at St. Bart's. He would look at St. Bart's once more say goodbye to John and close the door.

It was almost sunset when they drove up to the old Hospital. There was a large crowd of people standing about.

_Charity thing? Or a bomb scare?_

Sherlock sat up and looked closely at the crowd. His eyes opened wide.

_I know them! All of them!_

He saw Sarah Sawyer, Angelo and his crew, Henry and his therapist holding hands. He continued to scan the crowd. Old clients, Wiggins and most of the homeless network, Scotland Yarders, hospital workers, ambulance drivers, shop owners. Lots of young people with deerstalker hats, Mike Stamford standing next to Molly... 

Molly looked right at Sherlock, even though she couldn't actually see him. She held up a handmade sign, "I Believe in Sherlock Holmes." She smiled at him through her tears. 

Sherlock was stunned. He began to read the signs. "Sunset vigil for Sherlock Holmes" was strung across St. Bart's. There were many other variants of Molly's sign. "I believe in Sherlock Holmes, I am Sherlocked, Sherlock Lives, I love Sherlock, Sherlock & John forever." 

Sherlock pressed his hand against the window. He wanted to jump out. He wanted to run to Molly and hug her till she giggled. He wanted to go home. He wanted his John. His love. 

Davis paused a moment as pedestrians walked in front of the car heading towards the vigil. Sherlock saw they had candles, it was almost dark. The place on the sidewalk where he had died was overflowing with flowers, signs, cards, Teddy Bears dressed like John & Sherlock and portraits. Artist renditions of Sherlock, and portraits of John & Sherlock. Sherlock stared at one beautiful pen and ink drawing of John and him. The artist captured John's smile and look of admiration. 

"You're a lucky man, Sherlock." said Davis. "All these people taking time out of their lives to give you a tribute. That's a worthwhile life, I'd say. And you get to witness it." 

"Lucky?" Sherlock closed his eyes. He put the image of the lovely portrait of John in his mind palace's John room and shut the door. The door locked with an echoing click. "We need to get to the airport, Davis, I'm done here." 

Davis pulled away from St. Bart's then stopped for a red light. He said, "Sherlock, look out the back." Sherlock turned to look out the back window. In the gray light following the last rays of the setting sun he could see hundreds of flickering lights where he knew the crowd was milling about in front of St. Bart's. The lights burned into his eyes and his memory. Sherlock faced forward and closed his eyes. He could still see the little flames dancing on his eyelids. "Oh, Mycroft, what have we done?" he whispered. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ran into a problem can you guess what it is? Well, Mark Gatiss combined about 14 years of Sherlock Holmes stories into 5 years! I need to get Victorian Sherlock to Reichenbach ASAP! Edit, Edit, Edit!;)
> 
> Thanks for reading! Thanks for putting up with a new writer! Love to all!


	23. The Cure for Loneliness

The Hotel Dulong, Lyons, France, 1887.

Michel Vernet was studying the sleeping figure of his cousin Sherlock. The hotel Doctor had sent him a telegram that Monsieur Holmes was ill, requesting assistance from a relative. Michel immediately notified John Watson. And was now sitting with his stricken cousin and waiting for the good Doctor to arrive from London. 

When Michel had arrived, Sherlock's hotel room was littered with congratulatory telegrams. His work over the last few months had won him worldwide acclaim. At a time when all Europe was praising his name, he lay in a deep depression, worn out from work and stress. His body had betrayed him. Months of endless work and traveling, had pushed him to his limits. And his arms were covered with the marks of the needle he was using to try and cope. Michel was a veterinarian, but could have easily been a Doctor, he was definitely a good man to have on hand in a crisis. Michel suspected it was the cocaine that had finally drained all the strength from Sherlock's body. He suspected he might have taken too much the night the hotel Doctor found him in his room, fully clothed sitting in a chair and unresponsive. A strange smile on his face.

Michel sighed, and straightened the blankets on Sherlock's bed to keep him warm. He wished John would hurry, he knew he would.

.oOOo.

John had arrived in London two weeks after sitting in the cafe' by the Eiffel Tower with Sherlock. He immediately regretted his decision to leave Sherlock in Paris. Missing Sherlock filled his mind. There were times he could barely breath, just thinking of him. As always he turned to his poetry for solace.

The rain on the roof makes a tinny sound  
Like thousands of pins on the way to the ground.  
I can not nap or work or eat  
While thousands of pins may endanger my feet.

The wind whines and calls my name.  
If I do sometimes answer I am not to blame.  
I need to hear the sound of my own voice  
Responding to my name, I have no choice.

Lonely thoughts and lonely nights  
Echo in darkness and dim all the lights.  
Surrounded by people the wind’s all I hear.  
You are not whispering in my ear.

So alone in the midst of a crowd  
I want to shout and cry out loud.  
But all I seem to do is disappear  
Into the background when people are near.

I suppose the cure for loneliness  
Is to gather courage and befriend the friendless.  
But courage fails when you are away  
I’ll just talk to the wind for one more day.

Arthur and Oscar had been wonderful to John. They welcomed him home, and kept him very busy with their plans. John was staying with Arthur to give the impression that 221b was no longer his home. Oscar had been extolling the virtues of The Good Doctor and his new bride Rose Vernet in all the clubs he frequented. "A vision! A rare flower, plucked from the French countryside and transplanted to London. A shy and reclusive angel in woman's form. And a good cook too!"

Arthur had secured a practice and an adjacent home from a retired colleague who had no children and wanted his practice to continue. He gave it into Arthur's hands with the simple request that the new doctor look after his last few elderly patients at no charge. John was delighted to help. And grateful for the generous gift. He suspected Arthur may have bought it for him. For now John kept his silence, but planned to pay Arthur back as soon as possible.

The plan was simple. John would have a practice, under the name of J.H.Watson, the slight name change would make people wonder as to whether the new Doctor was a John, James or Joseph. He would then wait for his bride to arrive from France. Rose Watson's baggage would arrive first. As Oscar explained in detail, "Trunks marked with French rail tickets and full of delicious Paris gowns, provided by myself, which we will make sure are displayed outside for a good three hours, before the loud clumsy porters, also provided by me, accidentally tip one over to reveal lace and pearls enough to make all the gawking neighbors believers. Then Sherlock will arrive dressed as Rose, with a beguiling veil over his pretty face. I shall take you both to concerts and semi-private dinners for a month, and Sherlock will appear at your new home now and then, and even at Baker Street. The happy couple visiting an old bachelor friend. Eventually Rose will see fit to visit her ailing French Mother, and disappear. Or we may kill her off. You would be appealing as a grieving widower, John."

Arthur had great plans for the literary side of, The Adventure of the Reclusive Rose, as he called the plan. When John was ready to publish his next story, Arthur would add hints at John's first marriage. "I shall add a sentence here and there like, 'Shortly after my wedding.' And have lengthily paragraphs with Holmes and Watson discussing married life." The Lady shall always be out, or visiting a relative, giving you a reason to be in 221b again. And I shall turn Sherlock into a wondrous machine, far above the needs of the flesh. And if an opportunity arrives, we shall have him show a fleeting interest with a woman, she can't be an ordinary woman she must be The Woman."

John agreed to Arthur's editions only if everything else about the case was totally true. John wanted people to know how incredible and brilliant his partner was, John's stories brought real people with real problems to 221b Baker Street, and he would not agree to fool them.

John thought the plan was ridiculous, but he would gladly live in Wonderland for the chance of being with his Holmes again

.oOOo.

Michel heard voices in the hall. He had left instructions that Doctor Watson be brought straight to the suite were Sherlock was resting. Sherlock's suite had an adjoining door with another bedroom and a balcony dining area beyond. Michel stepped into the hall when he heard John's voice making inquiries after Sherlock. John looked at Michel, and asked, "Where?" Michel gestured to Sherlock's bedroom. John nodded his thanks, briefly touched his arm, then went to Sherlock's bedside.

Sherlock looked thin and pale. Yet resting soundly. His worn face was childlike and serene. John's heart tightened in his chest. His reasons for leaving France seemed trivial and selfish. "I should never have left him alone." he thought.

Michel entered after seeing to John's luggage. He had John's Doctor's bag in his hand. John took off his traveling cloak and reached into his hat for his stethoscope. He took Sherlock's pulse. It was weak, but steady. He listened to his breathing, his lungs were clear. And then the beat of his lover's heart. It was strong. John sighed, placed a kiss on Sherlock's brow."No trace of fever, love." John murmured softly. Then John looked at Sherlock's forearms just hidden by his nightshirt. The marks told him all he needed to know. He sighed, stood up and went to Michel who was sitting at the little balcony dining area. He had ordered Tea, as real an English Tea as he could manage in Paris. John joined him.

Michel poured the tea as John thanked him.

"There is nothing to thank me for, John. Sherlock is my brother. I would do anything for him. But I feared he would not recover well without his Watson."

"What did you give him?" John asked, sipping his hot tea.

"A mild sedative. Don't worry it wasn't for the horses!"

John laughed. He knew Michel was better than any country Doctor. He had pulled John through a fever. John trusted him completely.

"Do you think he overdosed on the cocaine?" John inquired.

"I don't think so, not intentionally, but I think he's been using it more frequently, and may have taken a second dose too soon after the first. It has occurred to me that French cocaine may be stronger than English. When I found him he was coherent and apologetic. He assured me John, he was not suicidal. On the contrary, he spoke only of returning to you."  


"He kept saying, I need my savior, my cure, my Watson. I believe it was a mistake, John, brought on by intense fatigue. He will be alright, especially now that you are here."

"I can't thank you enough, Michel. I feel like I let him down, let the Vernets down."

"Nonsense John! Sherlock is a man, not a boy, and he is a Vernet! It is the drug that is wrong here. He needs to leave it behind! You could never let the Vernets down, John. From what Marianna tells me, you are a Vernet-in-law now!" Michel tapped on John's signet ring. "Vernets stick together and help each other. You could never let us down."

John smiled at his kind words."Merci, Michel, merci. I intend to take him back to London as soon as possible. Is that alright with you?"

"Of course, Of course. Sherlock will do better in London I think. He needs you. All his luggage is here. He was intending to travel to London when he fell ill. I have a suspicion he intended to stop using the needle before he came to you. It was all too much for him."

"You must be exhausted, Michel. Take this bedroom and I will sit with Sherlock. I want to be with him when he wakes."

They both rose from the balcony and walked into the main room. "Merci. I think I shall. Do not hesitate to wake me if you need anything, mon frere." Michel smiled.

John was reminded again of Sherlock. Michel had Sherlock's devilish smile. "Merci beaucoup." said John as he embraced his French Brother.

.oOOo. 

John took his place in a chair by Sherlock's bed. Sherlock was growing restless, frowning and moving about in his sleep. John took his hand, and started talking gently to him. He did not want his presence to shock him.

"Sherlock, my dear, it's alright now. Your Watson is here. I have your hand." John kissed his hand. "I'm going to take you home."

"Michel, I hear John. My sweet John. Have I died? No. No, John isn't dead." Sherlock was becoming agitated.

"Sherlock, open your eyes." John said a little more firmly.

Sherlock had to do as John said, even if he was dead. He opened his eyes and focused on a face. John's face.

"John!" Sherlock looked around. The hotel in Lyons. John. "Oh, John, you're here!" he said dreamily. Sherlock reached out to touch John's face. "Really here!"

"Yes, I came as soon as I got Michel's telegram. Sherlock I'm so sorry I left you alone. I was so selfish. I never should have left you." 

"You? Selfish? It would have been the very first time, my Watson. I'm the one who is selfish. I nearly killed myself with work. For what? All I ever really need is you. I love you, my Watson."

John hadn't heard those words in so long, it nearly broke his heart to hear them now. "I love you, too." John leaned over and kissed Sherlock's lips. Sherlock was fully awake now and embraced John pulling him close. Their kiss was one of longing and sorrow. And then it blossomed into a deep kiss of renewal. They broke apart. "Never again, Sherlock, I'll not leave you again. I'm taking you home." John whispered.

.oOOo.

John had made arrangements for Sherlock to recuperate in the country. An old Army friend of John's, Colonel Hayter, had been asking John for ages to come for a visit. In the Colonel's last letter he had extended the invitation to include Sherlock. John knew the Colonel could be trusted with their secret. John had saved the Colonel's life in Afghanistan, and allowed him to talk of his grief when his long time male lover had died in battle. The Colonel thought the world of John Watson. And was more than delighted to offer his "bachelor establishment" to the couple, as Arthur later called it in the "Reigate Squire." 

Surrey was lovely in the Spring, and John was committed to making Sherlock, rest, eat, and enjoy the countryside. John had helped Sherlock stop using the cocaine by lowering his dosage and substituting mild sedatives and herbal tonics. (Supplied by Arthur). Sherlock was strong enough after two weeks to stop using the cocaine for a few days at a time. Thankfully Colonel Hayter was well up to the challenge of keeping Sherlock occupied, as he genuinely admired the Detective and wanted nothing more than to sit by the fire listening to Sherlock talk of tobacco ash and the shapes of ears in proving familial connections. Colonel Hayter had uttered more words of praise while puffing on his amber-tipped pipe, than John ever did on a case. Sherlock was pleased with his glowing adjectives and seemed content to rest, while entertaining the Colonel.

John was pleased Sherlock was recovering his strength. And even though he kept a watchful eye on his patient, everything conspired against the good Doctor and his prescription for peace and quiet. The neighborhood was disturbed by robberies and murder and Sherlock Holmes was called upon to brilliantly solved the puzzle of the Reigate Squires. And in the process scaring John out of his wits by feigning relapse, brain damage, and nearly becoming a murder victim himself.

In the aftermath of the case, John and Sherlock were in their nightclothes and dressing gowns in their cozy bed chamber, sitting before the small but cheery fire ordered by the Colonel. The Colonel feared Sherlock might be fatigued after his amazing exertions and firmly sent his guests to bed after a delicious farewell dinner. They were to return to Baker Street tomorrow, and were discussing their latest adventure while sipping a delightful orange pekoe tea. Sherlock had grown quite fond of it and the Colonel.

"You were right, my dear Watson, I am feeling quite myself. The country air has done me good."

"And you have done the country some good. You were amazing, my dear Holmes. But I do think you owe me an apology."

"Whatever for?" Sherlock inquired.

John smiled at the fact that his genius could not think of anything he had done that might require an apology. john thought briefly of making a list in alphabetical order, but settled on just one. 

"You should not have let me go on thinking you were having mental problems. Sherlock, that shook me to my core." John said softly."Why do you keep me in the dark? I may not be a genius, but I am not the idiot you seem to think I am either. I would never betray your trust."

Sherlock rested his tea on its saucer, "I was only trying to get a sample of the murderer's handwriting by feigning mental fatigue. Why would that upset you?"

"Think of it, Holmes. I am your doctor and your lover. Could I not be affected by such a symptom?" John put his cup down angrily on the tea table, causing the teacups to rattle.

"My dear Watson, if I have caused..."

"Do not apologize, unless you know what you have done to hurt me. Your apology is worthless to me if you do not understand the reason for it." John was angry now. His own worry and fatigue showing on his usually stoic face. Sherlock finally realized that his Watson had also been through a hard time. But that Doctor/Soldier Watson would never think of his own needs before the needs of others and especially before the needs of Sherlock. Sherlock was honestly ashamed.

Sherlock took John's hand in his own. "I have done what I always do. Underestimate and disregard the feelings of the wisest, most loving, and best man I know. I have caused you to worry about my health. Made you rescue me from my own bad habits. Made you even more worried that all your care was for naught, and added to the injurious treatment by not telling you of my little play act before hand. Am I correct?"

John fidgeted in his chair. "Correct."

"I am truly sorry, my dear, to have caused you worry and pain. But I can not find it in me to say I'll never do it again. I can promise you, I will always cherish you and try keep you from harm. I would die for you gladly, kill for you if need be. And love you eternally, in this life and after. I took our 'wedding' vows very seriously. But I don't recall the priest saying anything about promising to never be an egotistical, annoying, inconsiderate arse, till death do us part. I'm afraid you will always need to forgive me. Don't you agree?" 

John shook his head, yet smiled.

"No? You don't agree?" Sherlock sounded hurt.

"How do you do that Holmes?"

"Do what? What did I do?" asked Sherlock.

"Make me love you even more than I already do with a few well chosen and heartfelt words. You are a remarkable fellow, Holmes, I should never bother to grow angry with you. Yes, I forgive you. Yes, I will always forgive you."

"Promise?" Sherlock teased.

John stood and put on his Doctor voice. "Into bed, Holmes, now." Sherlock smiled and obeyed.

In the fading embers of the little cheery fire, John and Sherlock made love and renewed their vows to each other. And in the afterglow of their love, Sherlock whispered, "John, will you write a poem about this?"

"Yes, probably. Go to sleep, love."

"Will it be a love poem or one of those metaphor laden semi-spiritual poems?"

"Love poem. Go to sleep."

"Will you read it to me?"

'"Yes, Go to sleep."

"Will you read me a love poem now?"

"No, I will not, love. Go to sleep."

"John?"

"Your love poems make me feel strangely calm and warm inside. Superior to cocaine. You are superior to cocaine, John."

John said nothing but wrapped his arms around Sherlock and drew him close. As close as possible.

"Sleep, love," said John. "My life with you is one epic love poem, and each tomorrow writes another lyrical line."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is based on The Reigate Squire (aka The Reigate Squires aka The Reigate Puzzle.) I've always loved the fact that Watson made it to Lyons in 24 hours and took Holmes to a "bachelor establishment" to recuperate. You can't tell me that's not love. I believe a true test of love is who comes to get you when you are in trouble and stuck in the middle of nowhere.
> 
> Thank you to all who are reading. I've got great plans for all the Sherlocks and Johns! They are getting closer and closer! Next stop on the catbus, Mary!
> 
> Got lots of wishes left. Make a comment, get a wish!


	24. A Trip to Wonderland

187 North Gower street, London, England, 2012.

John was numb. Cried out, empty, and numb. He had said his goodbyes to Sherlock. He had said his goodbyes to Mrs. Hudson and her sister, who had taken her away from Baker Street for a while. "England didn't fall, Sherlock, you did. I did." he thought bitterly. Then the voice in his head asserted itself again. "Sherlock Holmes is not dead!" the voice would not stop saying that. 

"Captain?"

"Great another voice." thought John."Why don't I just move out and let you all start the party, eh?"

"Lad." This time the voice touched his arm. "Oh, poor lad." Now the voice was embracing him and patting his back.

The scent of Trumper's lime, brought him back to his senses. "Murray. Hugging. Murray's house. Tour. Living here now. Not Baker Street. Not Sherlock." John could not cry anymore, he hugged Murray back.

"Thanks, Murray, for everything." John managed to say.

"Glad for the company, Captain. Let me finish showin' you around. There are some safety bits ya need to know and I need to make ya a key, and make ya supper. Then you can go on upstairs to the spare bedroom and have a kip in private."

As John finally looked around, he thought, "That sounded... nice... Murray was nice... Murray thinks I'm gonna off myself... might...not here though... It's nice."

The house had 221B's bones. But it was renovated with a thoughtful hand. Where Mrs. Hudson's flat would be was a huge modern kitchen sparkling with black and white tiles and restaurant grade appliances. Adjacent to the kitchen was sort of a family room with a large telly on a stand and lots of games laying about. A small guest room with bunk beds was near the back door. Up seventeen authentically restored steps was a spacious Victorian sitting room, furnished entirely in period antiques. A large Mahogany sideboard filled almost a whole wall, there was a lovely restored Victorian sofa, and chairs by the coal fire grate. Where 221B's kitchen would be was a grand piano. A violin case was near a music stand by the window. The thoroughly authentic decor included real gaslights on the wall, a study lamp on the desk and candles ready to light your way to the bedroom. There was a master bedroom off the sitting room and up a few more stairs, a guest room. Ready for John.

They entered the Kitchen. "I love to cook, but Myc is a bloody genius at sauces and desserts." Murray said sadly. "This bedroom, is for the kids." Murray pointed to the back of the kitchen. "You know, sleepin' rough. They come and go, new faces, same old problems." Murray pulled two antique keys down from a hook by the door. Key to the basement. You gotta see the basement, Captain."

John managed a smile, but he really wanted to be alone, and at the same time dreaded it. Playing at liking Murray's house was easy. It was...nice. "I might even manage to say something pleasant about the boiler in the basement. Maybe." he thought.

Murray gave John the extra key and unlocked the basement door with his. Rickety stairs led down to an odd narrow hall. To the right was a dank room. John could see an old boiler and part of a washing machine from his angle. "That's a bit odd in such a modern house." he thought.

But Murray didn't turn right. He was staring at the wall. "Captain, I want ya to meet our 'ouseboy, Rand."

John scrunched up his eyes and tilted his head. "What, now?" he said.

Murray smiled and spoke to the wall. "Rand-on. I have someone I want to introduce to ya."

Part of the wall moved aside, and a computer monitor screen appeared. "Hi, Doctor Watson." on the screen was the face of a young man of 25 or so. He wore a black turtleneck and a medallion of a silver owl with cobalt blue jewels for eyes. His blond hair was piled on his head in a strange sort of pompadour style straight out of the sixties. "I'm Rand. I'm thrilled to meet you! Murray told me all about you! Love your blog, so sorry for your loss by the way. What may I call you?"

John stared at the monitor. "Murray, what the Hell?"

Murray smiled. "Rand, 'ere is our AI computer. Royal. Army. National. Defense. He runs the 'ouse, electricity, 'eating and gas. Security and smoke alarms. And so much more. Right 'andy Rand is. Just do as 'e says and we'll set ya up with a key."

"Rand, Doctor Watson 'ere is stayin' with us. 'is clearance level is M-5. Please make 'im a key full access."

"M-5?" asked John.

"Yeah, me and Myc are M-6, the Prime Minister is M-5, Myc trusts ya."

"Excuse me, Doctor Watson. What may I call you?"

John addressed the screen."I guess 'Doctor' would be good."

"Thank you, Doctor. Please put your hands on either side of my monitor, and look into my eyes."

John glanced at Murray who nodded. "Go on, 'e don't bite, I don't think."

John did as Rand said and the area under his hands began to glow. John looked into Rand's eyes and saw a reflected light scanning his eyes and face.

"Oooo. Dreamy eyes. What is that exquisite color? It's like a stormy sea!" John laughed.

"Rand, stop flirtin'. Captain, it's just a hand-print and retina scan, all he needs now is a voice id and ya'll be good to go."

"Say something nice, Doctor." said Rand.

"It's a pleasure to meet you Rand. I'm looking forward to using you."

"Doctor, the pleasure is all mine. Process completed, Murray. Shall I open the basement door?"

"Yeah. Thanks Rand."

The wall slid closed over Rand's monitor. And with a swishing sound the entire hall was moving revealing a huge brightly lit room. In the center of the room was a carpeted platform and a long curved table covered with monitors and computers. There was a large center screen flanked by rows of security monitors. Two luxurious leather desk chairs were positioned in front of the main screen. Other desk chairs were scattered here and there. At one end of the table was an old Atari game console hooked up to a telly circa 1980.

John looked around in amazement. 

The rest of the room was divided into areas. An exercise area, with mats, a treadmill, weights and a punching bag. A small kitchenette supplied with food and bottled water. A medical emergency area with a hospital bed and locked supply cabinets, and a large gun safe. In one corner were some fold up cots, blankets, sheets and pillows. And of course a partitioned off Loo.

"Welcome to Wonderland, Agent Watson." proclaimed Murray.

"This is incredible, Murray!" John climbed the three steps to the platform, sat in a leather chair, and swiveled around taking in everything. He spotted the Atari and laughed.

"Myc and me like Asteroids." said Murray simply.

"Murray? Who the Hell are you?" Now Murray laughed.

"Well, I guess if Mycroft is the British Government. I'm the Secret Service."

"I've been an agent for many years. Started as a soldier. But I gained me some skills, earned me some metals, so they made me a teacher. Martial arts, stealth, self-defense, tracking, and shooting. I've taught 'em all. Met Myc in a class i was givin' on survival techniques." Murray smiled. "Passed the course by hidin' a mobile in 'is parka linin'. Called a 'elicopter to pick 'im up. 'is Superiors wanted to sack 'im. But I passed 'im cause of the balls it took. Now I work for 'im. My cover is the friendly fish & chips guy. The shop really was me Mum's. Best cover ever. No one ever sees me. Like bein' invisible. The bastard. Wonder what 'e's up to." Murray sighed. " I best be makin' us dinner, Captain. Rand can show ya how everything works. Ya just 'ave to talk to 'im. Now ya voice is ya key and Rand can tell ya anythin' ya want to know. Start with Rand-on"

"Rand-on." said John as Murray made his way to the kitchen.

"Hello again, Doctor, how may I assist you?"

"Well, what's the big screen do?"

"Main monitor. You can use it for simple internet access. Murray likes to watch movies on it. But Master Mycroft prefers to use it exclusively for tracking."

"Wait, you call him Master Mycroft?" John said with a smirk.

"That's what he prefers."answered Rand. John shook his head, "Tell me about tracking." said John.

The screen before him flashed with a picture of the spinning earth.

"It's extremely easy, well, with me around it is. You simply tell me the code number of the tracking device on the person you wish to find. Example. Doctor John H. Watson. #007. " John interrupted,"007?" Rand continued."Master Mycroft said you'd like that. Anyway, Say 'Find-007.' Go on then, Doctor." John did so. "Find-007." he said.

The screen started showing images of England, London, and finally 187 North Gower. "That's you, Doctor, Dear." John made a face at the endearment. "Can you show me a list of people and their codes?" John asked.

"Certainly. A list was transposed over the map. There are 200 people currently being tracked by Master Mycroft. But you can add anyone you like as long as they have had a tracking device implanted." John's hand stole towards his old wound. He had his device implanted under his scar on the advice of the technician. He wanted it well hidden from Sherlock.

"Sherlock," he thought as the crushing grief washed over him again. "I had managed not to think of Sherlock for almost an hour." He felt even sadder if that was possible at having been distracted. Well, it did take an amazing AI computer and a trip to Wonderland."Sherlock would have loved this." He said out loud.

"Sherlock-005" said Rand.

John looked at the list. Master Mycroft-001, Murray-002, Queen-003, Current Prime Minister-004, Sherlock-005...

John leaned on the desk. His head in his hand. He thought of Sherlock's grave. This was too cruel. He said through his tears. "Find-005, Find-Sherlock."

To his surprise, an image of England and France came up on the screen. A green blinking dot was moving towards Paris. It was labeled 005. Another word was blinking across the screen "In Transit."

"My God! My God! What... What is this? Murray! Murray!" He screamed.

"What's wrong. Doctor. How may I assist?" said Rand.

"Get Murray down here, now!" He screamed at the computer.

John's mind was reeling. "Sherlock-In Transit? Can this thing show the afterlife? Must be a glitch. The afterlife would not be in France. I'm pretty sure. What does this mean?" Murray burst through the door and looked at the screen.

"What the Hell? Rand, Find-001." Another green light lit up right next to Sherlock's labeled 001.

"Don't panic, John. Myc is on a plane to Paris he has Sherlock's... body with him.. or his tracking device. Myc had one implanted in Sherlock years ago. Sherlock never knew. Myc may be taking his body to France... Maybe he implanted it in someone else..."

"Or Sherlock Holmes is alive." John's voice was as cold and cutting as a steel blade. There were no more tears. He knew Sherlock was alive. He always knew. Victorian Sherlock knew. He saved his life. He would have killed himself over a bloody lie. John felt his heart harden like it was being filled with hot lead. "Sherlock Holmes lied to me. Mycroft lied to me." he glared at Murray.

Murray's face reflected John's cold fury. "Fuckin' 'olmes Brothers. Fancy a trip to Paris, Agent Watson?"

"Oh God...yes." John's voice cracked with rage.

.oOOo.

John could not breathe, unbidden tears were streaming down his face. He was having a meltdown in a Paris alley, because he had just seen Sherlock Holmes.

Using phones equipped with a mobile Rand, John and Murray had tracked Sherlock's and Mycroft's signals to a Paris cafe'. John and Murray watched from a safe distance as the men they loved, the men who broke both their hearts, sipped cafe' and nibbled at croissants. Mycroft looked relaxed in casual clothes, a baseball cap and sneakers. Sherlock was sporting a short haircut, a tailored leather jacket, and sunglasses. Sherlock looked healthy and very much alive. When Sherlock threw back his head to laugh at something Mycroft said. John lost it. Murray had to pull him into an alley and pin him against a brick wall.

"Captain, ya must calm down! Slow ya breathin'. Captain listen to me!" Murray cried.

"Alive...really alive...not a vision...how could he do that to me?..." John was trying to calm down, and focusing on Murray's sad face. The look of betrayal in Murray's eyes was somehow calming. Murray knew how he felt. He wiped John's tears away with one hand and placed a chaste kiss on his forehead. "It's alright, Captain, I got ya. We're gonna have a little talk with Mycroft 'olmes and clear up a thing or two. John embraced Murray and matched his breaths to his, growing calm in the old Soldier's arms. John knew Murray was a proud gay man, very open and demonstrative, and the kiss was nothing more than an outpouring of emotional support. A life with Murray flashed through his mind, that would be nice... But they were still in love with the Bloody Holmes Brothers and they both knew it.

"Thank you, Murray, I'm fine now. What's wrong?" Murray was looking into space, and then at his phone.

"Too easy, Captain. Mycroft knew I'd follow 'im I always do. I've tracked 'im all over the world and saved 'is neck many a time. Even before Rand made it so easy. Mycroft knows that. And 'e knew I'd find out Sherlock was alive. 'e wanted me to know. But 'e couldn't tell me. That means Mycroft wanted both of us to know as soon as possible. 'e's doin' us a kindness. Sherlock must 'ave a reason not to tell ya 'e's alive, Captain, Mycroft thinks 'e's wrong."

John understood. "Sherlock's protecting me. Sherlock thinks he's saving my life by getting out of my life. Makes sense in a Sherlock kind of way. The stupid wanker."

"And they nearly killed ya." Murray said quietly and touched John's arm. "OK, now?" John nodded and smiled. "Good. Let's go wait for me darlin' boy. We best talk to 'im alone first." Murray said menacingly.

They found an abandoned store with a side entrance on another dark Paris alley right by Mycroft's hotel. They waited for him to leave the cafe' and walk by on his own. Sherlock had headed in a different direction.

As Mycroft walked by Murray called out, "Mycroft, mon petit chou, viens ici!" Mycroft froze, closed his eyes and turned to Murray.

"Took you long enough." Mycroft said sarcastically. Murray grabbed him roughly, and pushed him through the door. John was waiting by a chair inside.

"Sit down, Myc! Been an age! What ya been up to, boss?" John said. Murray pushed him into the grubby chair and folded his arms.

"John, I can explain..." John laughed wickedly. "Can you, now?" John turned towards Mycroft and punched him right in the nose, so hard he fell to the dusty floor.

John moved to pick him up and hit him again, but Murray held him back. "I know, Captain, but I want to hear what happened, alright?" Murray asked gently and John nodded.

Mycroft watched the exchange and thought, "John smells like the Sarge's aftershave, and listen to that voice. Sarge likes him. A lot. Oh, God, not that too." Mycroft got up and sat back in the chair. He looked at Murray sadly. "Ask away." he said.

"How did it start?" Murray asked.

"Moriarty. After the pool incident. Sherlock became obsessed with keeping him away from John. Sherlock let himself be played. Moriarty's last deed was to force Sherlock to commit suicide to protect the three people he loved most. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and John. Three targets, three gunmen. They had to see Sherlock dead."

"Why keep it from me, and from the Captain?" asked Murray.

"Sherlock wanted to destroy Moriarty's web, he doesn't expect to come back. He wouldn't endanger John, knew he would want to come with him. He wanted him to be free to live a normal life."

"The Captain 'ere almost offed 'imself from the grief. You geniuses think about that?"

Mycroft looked at the floor and said simply, "No."

Murray went over to Mycroft grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. He looked him in the eyes and asked. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"If something went wrong, Sarge, I would have killed my own brother. I couldn't let you be part of that. I knew you'd find me. You always save me. Sarge, please forgive me. Am I too late? Have I destroyed everything?"

Murray looked at John, who nodded and gave him a sad smile. Murray pulled Mycroft into his strong arms. "I'm so sorry, Sarge, so very sorry." Mycroft whispered in Murray's ear. Murray kissed him briefly on the lips, aware of John watching them."Ya owe me, Myc." he said and Mycroft smiled, "So, much." said Mycroft.

John cleared his throat. Somehow the loving scene he witnessed calmed his anger. "Sherlock was right about one thing, I want to go with him. Where is he?"

"You can't go John, at least you can't let Sherlock know you're helping him. Sherlock needs to do this, I couldn't stop him and he will not accept you putting yourself in danger. He'd know we have a tracker on him. He'd run from you John. And if he runs we'll never find him. Which is why Agent Watson, we are going to prepare you for your new assignment. You will be Sherlock's invisible soldier. We will send you in when he needs help, and pull you out before he figures it out. Do you accept?"

"Yes, Myc. What do I do?" said John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlike some authors, (Arthur Conan Doyle and Mark Gatiss) I did not let John Watson suffer for TWO years! Just a week or so.
> 
> OK, so Rand is a mixture of Majel Roddenberry and Yeoman Rand from Star Trek, Holly the computer from Red Dwarf, and the Dad-Link from Richie Rich. Remember? Dad-not-found, Dad-not-found, Dad-not-found. Poor Richie Rich. I love Murray's house. Want to live there. 187 North Gower is the address of the door and facade that they used for 221B. A real cafe' is next door.
> 
> Hope you are enjoying! Love to all.


	25. Hocus Pocus, Razzle Dazzle

221b Baker Street, London, England, 1888.

221b was crowded that day. Mrs. Hudson was setting out tea and lemon poppy muffins. Arthur Conan Doyle was shuffling manuscripts and editorial notes at the table. Oscar Wilde was stretched out like a contented cat on the sofa, reading John's poems. John Watson was smoking his favorite pipe in his favorite chair by the fire and Sherlock Holmes was pacing about the room like a caged tiger. He had been reading Arthur's additions to "A Scandal in Bohemia" and he was livid.

"The Woman, Arthur, The Woman, what do you even mean by it? I was against my Watson publishing this in the first place. I failed, Arthur, Irene Adler ne' Norton, bested me on this case. She is the cleverest woman I have ever had the fortune to know. She is also technically a blackmailer, although she actually did no harm." 

"Holmes, this case is a perfect vehicle for weaving our tale of fiction on a basis of fact." 

"Fantasy, Fairyland fantasy, Arthur. You make it seem like I am besotted with The Woman, a married woman, by the way. I know she was married I witnessed her wedding to Norton!" 

"I only insinuate, Holmes, I cast a romantic spell around the case, and guide the readers to conclusions they think are their own. Hocus Pocus, Razzle Dazzle."

"Do you really think your readers so gullible that they will believe Sherlock Holmes would fall madly in love with a blackmailing temptress, after being with her, let's see, once at her own wedding, and once while in disguise, enacting a false fire, with my Watson looking on? When did this wooing take place? You think this fact will elude your readers?"

"Well, yes." Arthur said simply. Oscar chuckled, his mouth full of muffin.

"What say ye, Wilde, do you agree with me?" Sherlock turned on Oscar for support.

Oscar looked up from the worn leather notebook. "One should always eat muffins calmly: It is the only way to eat them." said Oscar picking up another muffin and inhaling its warm lemony fragrance. "Therefore, I am paying no heed to your rant. I am absorbed in Watson's world of love and enjoying it thoroughly." John laughed and tried to turn it into a cough, to no avail.

"You!" Sherlock turned to John. "Watson, these are your words Arthur's toying with. What do you have to say?"

"Arthur is trying to help us, Holmes. If he sets a romantic scene for you the audience will make up the rest of the story. In a few years, if the story, still exists, if the last copy is not used to wrap fish, readers will remember what they made up themselves. That Sherlock Holmes was a machine until he met The Woman, how sad they could never be together. You will be a romantic hero. Suspicions about Old Watson will be pushed out of the picture. In my opinion it's brilliant writing." said John. Arthur blushed and smiled.

"Helping me by calling me a machine! Me? Unfeeling? Why every case is another example of my altruistic nature! I bring rest to the weary and solace to the grieving. I am a beacon of righteousness!" A sudden silence permeated the room.

Then Watson, Doyle and Wilde burst out laughing till they were all wiping tears from their collective eyes.

Sherlock dropped into his chair. "Oh, I give up! You are all three lunatics!" more laughter filled the room and Sherlock joined in.

.oOOo.

Much later when the muffins were long gone and the four friends had switched to Brandy and cigars, Oscar bought up the subject of Mary Morstan. The Sign of the Four was finished. Holmes actually approved of it. "The facts are clear, the action is absorbing and your character portrayals are spot on." Sherlock told John in private, John had swelled with pride.

But now the friends were suggesting changes.

"As much as I adore darling Rose Vernet, I think it's time Watson divorced her... or buried her." said Oscar.

Sherlock and John exchanged glances. They both enjoyed Sherlock's portrayal of Watson's wife, the reclusive Rose, who was always seen with a rose coloured veil covering her nose and mouth, her Kohl outlined eyes sparkling in the gaslight. It enabled them to be seem in public holding hands and exchanging chaste kisses. They were able to enjoy theater and concerts without rousing suspicion. There was one thing about Rose John especially loved.

.oOOo.

John recalled the first time Rose had spent the night at his Kensington home. The sun had set and Sherlock was eager to get out of his costume. He put his whole heart into his portrayal and enjoyed fooling all of the people all of the time.

"I'll be back in a moment, my Watson. This corset is a torture device." John smiled a mischievous smile.

"Sherlock, love?" Sherlock stopped and looked at John, puzzled at the endearment. "When you wash-up, love, leave on the lip rouge for me, alright? "John's stormy blue eyes twinkled as he proceeded to wink.

That evening Sherlock had to reapply lip rouge five times since John kept wearing it off in very inventive ways.

.oOOo.

"I must agree with Oscar," said Arthur. "Holmes' fame is spreading again and Watson is just as famous. Why, last week, a photograph appeared on society page of Dr. and Mrs. Watson at a violin concert. It was fool-hearty for you two to go to a violin concert. I'm worried that the word violin will bring Holmes to mind. And if someone examines the photograph closely..." 

"What do you suggest we do, Arthur?" said John.

"Send Rose to her Mother in France and let her die there." said Arthur.

"So young, so beautiful and full if life. Il est tragique!" said Oscar. "Then you must marry again, widower Watson, this time to a real woman. I think Mary Morstan will do quite well, if she is willing. What was she like?"

John stared into the fire and said nothing.

Sherlock briefly noted that John didn't answer, and answered the question in his own way.

"She was a model client, quick witted and had an good grasp on what is important and what is not. Governess to Mrs. Cecil Forrester who I had helped in a domestic matter some time before. Interesting though simple case. Mr. Cecil Forrester does not actually exist and this was beginning to cause Mrs. Forrester some concern." Sherlock smiled at the confusion on his friends faces.

Sherlock continued his story. Catherine Mersy writes rip-roaring tales of high adventure on the high seas. She writes under the name C.M. Forrester." said Sherlock

"Oh, I've read his stories," exclaimed Arthur. "I would have sworn they were written by a sea-worn old pirate!"

"A pirate she may be, for she has made a fortune, and has never been to sea in her life. But she is a woman none the less, and with a generous heart. She came to me because she wanted to take in two orphan siblings and raise them as her own. She made some discrete inquiries, but became frightened when a group called 'The Guardian Society' contacted her. They told her if she became a member of their society, they would make sure she did not adopt, 'the wrong sort of children'. Miss Mersy was appalled at what they were implying, and suspected them of trying to get to her fortune. She simply told them it was an idle whim of her husband's, since she couldn't have children herself, and tearfully sent them on their way. They seemed to believe her. The truth was that Miss Mersy didn't have children of her own because she preferred female companionship to male and always had."

"How wondrous! And we thought we were clever making up a false wife. What s that compared to making up a world of pirates and a husband to boot?" said Oscar. "How did you help her?"

"I posed as Mr. Forrester and spoke to the head of 'The Guardian Society'. I informed him that my wife was ill and not up to the task of raising orphans just yet. I tried to give him the impression that I approved of their society, in order to gain more information and satisfy my curiosity, as I was convinced this was a criminal organization. I continued to flatter the man. He eventually told me the society was founded by twin brothers who were adopted at a young age by a well to do family. They wanted to help other orphans meet a similar happy fate. The brothers were given every opportunity while growing up, one became a Colonel in the Army and one a brilliant mathematics Professor."

"Moriarty!" gasped Oscar and Arthur together. Sherlock glanced at John who stood by the fire a hand resting on the mantel, he wondered what was wrong, but was drawn back into the story.

"What did you do Holmes?" asked Oscar.

"Nothing. Nothing about the society anyway. I do not yet know what they are doing. It seems above board, virtuous even. But I am watching them. They will slip up eventually."

"And Miss Mersy? Did she get her orphans?" asked Arthur.

"Oh, yes! Wiggins and I found two angelic orphans for her right on Baker Street. A golden-haired girl struggling to feed her curly-haired little brother. Mrs. Cecil Forrester was ecstatic and shortly thereafter took in another orphan, Miss Morstan as her governess. I believe they are very close now, a very happy family."

"Oh, what a happy ending to your fairy tale, Holmes! Miss Morstan is perfect, she will keep your secret, and play the part well. She may welcome a sham marriage which will give her financial independence. And we need not separate her from her little family circle. Everyone may be included in the plan." said Oscar.

Arthur nodded approval. "We can write the romance into Sign of the Four, quite easily. And Holmes, well Holmes..."

"...Will say he will never marry and turn to the needle." said Oscar.

"Wilde!" said Arthur. "How tactless of you!"

"Well, what would you have him do? Be thrilled over the prospect of living alone again? You want him to be sad, but not heartbroken. Oh, for goodness sake, I am digging my own grave. I apologize Holmes, it was only a thought. I am caught up in the fantasy."

"It's fine, Wilde, if we are going through with this ludicrous plan, Miss Morstan would be an excellent choice."

"What do you think, my dear Watson, you liked Miss Morstan didn't you?" asked Sherlock.

"No." John said quietly.

"What was that? Surely you admired her..."

"I said. No. No. Do not involve that innocent girl. No. I do not wish to marry her. No. I won't be part of your thoughtless schemes. No. No. No, and Goodnight!" John rushed towards the door, grabbing his great coat. Sherlock pulled at his arm.

"Where are you going? It's after midnight. What is it, Watson?" Sherlock pleaded.

"She's dying, Holmes!" John wrenched his arm out of Sherlock's grasp and fled down the stairs. Three shocked friends listened to the front door of 221b slam shut.

.oOOo.

John walked for an hour or so in the park. It was a chilly November evening with sudden bursts of wind that sent a shower of rosy and golden leaves into the night air, spiraling down and covering the path. The leaves that rustled under John's feet sent an earthy aroma into the air. John thought it smelled like loss.

"Loss" he thought. "A Doctor's lot. Losing patients to violence, and disease. Somehow disease was worse. There should be things to do, cures, techniques, surgeries. Mary Morstan had tuberculosis and at 27 was already in the last year or two of her life and I can do nothing to save her."

Mary had confided in John at the end of her case. He offered to be her physician for her final years at least until she could find someone better. "Who could be better than one of my white knights?'" She had joked.

John wiped cold wet leaves off of a bench and sat down. He wiped a few cold wet tears from his eyes. He wasn't a bit angry at his friends, not angry at Sherlock at all. He thought Mary would be an excellent wife. If he didn't have his Holmes, he would have considered it for real. But without Holmes, he never would have met her. "It's odd how life throws people in your path. You meet someone who becomes a dear friend at work, or your future spouse at a train station, or you decide to share rooms with someone who becomes your whole world." he mused.

He looked at his watch. He had been gone almost two hours. The walk had done him good. He even thought he might ask Mary to marry him since he could look after her personally in the last stages of her disease. It may ease her mind to be helping friends even if she only rested in her room. He didn't know Mary very well, but he knew she would want to be useful. It may help keep her spirits up to be constantly hearing the wondrous deductions of Sherlock Holmes, who no doubt would want to help her in return. Holmes kept him from depression, that was sure. "My Holmes." he thought. "He must be pacing the floor with worry. He does not handle my emotions very well. People say I am a Saint for putting up with him, but he is the one who does a remarkable job putting up with me." John stood and made his way home.

.oOOo.

Arthur and Oscar had offered apologies and discretely left. They would call again in a day or two. Sherlock, as John predicted, started pacing the floor and worrying.

"My Watson has taught me there are very good things about loving and caring for another, but when he leaves me like this I wish I could go back to my old life, when I didn't care. Waiting is tedious. Waiting for your love's safe return is torture of the worst kind, Hell on earth!" Sherlock looked at the clock. "I shall begin to search for him if he is not home in two hours." Sherlock continued pacing, and tried not to think of all the horrible things that could have happened.

Finally Sherlock heard footsteps on the seventeen stairs. Watson's footsteps. "A little slow, but not injured. Depressed, but not drunk. Stiff from the cold night air, but not angry." Sherlock sighed and ran to pour the tea he had been keeping hot for John. When John opened the door, two slightly trembling hands took his coat hung it up and led John to his chair by the fire, covered him with a blanket, tucked it around him and put a cup of tea in his hands, all without saying a word.

"My dear Holmes, I am so sorry to have worried you. Please accept my apology. You have done nothing to offend me. I was overcome with emotion, and needed to walk and think."

"It's nice not to be the one apologizing for a change, my dear Watson. Perhaps next time you storm out of a room you could take me with you? I promise I would be quiet and let you think. I hate not knowing if you are alright."

John put his tea down. "Come here, love." John said softly. Sherlock fell to his knees in front of John and nestled his head in John's lap. John stroked Sherlock's hair and spoke gently.

"We'll talk about Mary tomorrow, love. Tonight I want to talk about you. You are my whole world. My magical, magnificent world. You are beautiful in body and mind. You complete me, you saved me from myself. I'm sorry you have to put up with my emotional outbursts. And my slow mind. I hate that I have wasted so much time without you. I want to be with you always. I love you more than I can say."

"I love you too, my Watson. Stay with me forever and I will be content. And if you could have your stormy, thunderous fits inside the house I would appreciate it for your hands are ice cold."

John laughed."Not the only part of my body that is suffering from the cold, love."

Sherlock raised his head. "To bed, Doctor! I must make sure that you have not been chilled!" Sherlock pulled John out of the chair and hurried him to bed. The Doctor did not protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "One should always eat muffins calmly..." Is from 'The Importance of Being Earnest' by Oscar Wilde.
> 
> I hope you are enjoying! Thanks for sticking with me!


	26. The Invisible Soldier

187 North Gower, London, England, 2013.

John was lounging on the dark red leather sofa in the Victorian-style sitting room of his temporary home. Murray had scanned the old worn leather poetry book into Rand as a present for John. Rand would read the poems out loud, while John closed his eyes and thought of Sherlock. The sofa was John's favorite spot for thinking of Sherlock.

It was almost two years since he buried Sherlock. He still thought of it that way. The Sherlock he knew, their promises, and their words of love were a thing of the past. Buried and gone. He was Agent Watson now. He was strong and tough. He had spent the last two years forgetting the pain of Sherlock's betrayal, and training to be the best agent he could be. Sherlock had a mission and so did John. Agent Watson had to keep Sherlock alive. Emotion would get both of them killed. Sherlock was now only John's work. His field partner Agent Davis, the other Agents he worked with, helicopter pilots and secret service men, Murray and Myc, these were the people he cared about. This was were his loyalty was, this was his family. Sherlock was important to England and to Mycroft, but not to Captain John Watson. Not any more.

John had seen Sherlock many times over the past two years. But Sherlock had never seen him. Murray was an expert at being invisible and John surpassed his teacher. John altered his appearance by growing a mustache and goatee. He thought he might keep the mustache. Appropriate costumes, waiters, tourists, policemen, hats and glasses. These were all he needed to fool the Great Sherlock Holmes. He had followed him all around the world silently helping him dismantle Moriarty's web. John was sent in by Mycroft when ever Sherlock found himself in a possibly dangerous situation. John was a shadow in an alley. An imagined figure who was there one second and gone the next. An invisible soldier, like a dangerous armed Santa Clause, leaving medical supplies, food, and weapons outside the dingy rooms Sherlock would hide out in. Sherlock never knew who his invisible soldier was. He was too sure of himself to imagine it could be his John. And in a way it was true. Sherlock's John lived on only in Sherlock's mind palace. That John was buried in Sherlock's empty grave. Agent Watson was the only survivor.

Rand interrupted John's thoughts. "Doctor, Mary Morsten has left you a message saying she can't make it tonight, has to stay with an friend who's had a bad breakup. She will see you tomorrow at work... likely story." John laughed.

"Yeah, wonder what she's up to now?" said John, he was glad Rand screened his phone calls, it gave him some time off from the bloody game.

Murray and Rand came up with a cover for John that worked well. He still worked at the clinic, but he also had a lecture tour, going to different military establishments and speaking on PTSD. Rand even made up brochures and elaborate schedules for John to leave haphazardly around the clinic. It was a brilliant cover and totally bogus. It fooled everyone. Even Mary Morsten. Mary Morsten had applied for a position with John's clinic a few months ago. Rand brought it to Mycroft's attention. Together they finalized their suspicions. This Mary was the same sniper they had dealings with before. She was entangled in Moriarty's web years before he came in under the Holmes radar. She worked for the CIA for a bit and then went freelance. She was a crack shot and seemed to have some sort of sick devotion to Moriarty. Mycroft suspected that she knew him for a long time. Mycroft paid special attention to Mary Morsten as she called herself now. Mary Morsten had killed his older brother Sherringford. 

"My brother and I were never close, he cared about no one, John, but still he was my brother and a Holmes." Mycroft was filling John in on his new assignment. Mary was obviously looking to finish off the job Moriarty had started. She was after John's heart.

"Sherringford was a jewel thief. And quite gifted. He started out as a history major at Eaton. He specialized in 19th century England and the Victorian age. His specialty was Victorian Jewelry. He was obsessed with owning fine old gems. And decided stealing them would be the best way to obtain them. Then he stole an incredibly expensive Blue Carbuncle from the wrong people. Enter "Mary" exit Sherringford."

"Myc I'm so sorry!" John had exclaimed.

"We had not spoken for years, I hated what he had done to our parents. Sherlock was devastated."

"Sherlock never really knew what Sherringford was. My lack of sorrow at his demise drove a wedge between us. We never talk about him."

"Sherlock never mentioned him at all."

"I sometimes think Sherringford may have been adopted. When I was young he joined some sort of a youth group. I remember him saying it was just for special children like him. He changed after that. It's a very foggy memory for me. I didn't understand why he changed. My parents won't talk about it. He was more like a charming uncle than a brother to Sherlock. Popped in now and then with a present for him. His memories are different than mine. But Sherringford did not deserve to die at the hand of a paid assassin."

"What do you want me to do with this "Mary" bitch?"

"I want you to marry her, John." said Mycroft.

.oOOo.

John was working on it. Mary seemed to be more than willing to fall in love with him. Sometimes he forgot all the secrets and actually enjoyed her company. She was warm, funny and cute. And a bloody good liar. Pretending made it easier. John knew he would never love again. His heart could not be burned. His heart was missing in action. So he played the game without a heart.

"Excuse me, Doctor, could you answer a question for me?" said Rand politely.

"Of course, Rand."

John and Murray had many discussions about Rand. Murray was convinced that given a few more years to "grow", Rand may become sentient. They had discussed roboethics and the importance of treating an AI in a moral and responsible manner. Mycroft had taught Rand how to think like a Holmes. Rand was able to predict Sherlock's moves by thinking like him and coordinating the movements of likely "rats." He had probably saved Sherlock's life more than once by sending John in at exactly the right moment. Murray had given Rand his knowledge and experience from the Army and the secret service as a sort of legacy. But now Rand had begun to ask questions. It began as soon as John had moved in. Questions about emotions, loyalty, life and love. Murray felt Rand needed a moral compass, and had asked John to take over the job. Mycroft had agreed. He could think of no one more ethical than Doctor John Watson. So John found himself a sort of Godfather to an evolving AI.

"Do you still love Sherlock Holmes?" The question startled John.

"No, I mean, I did. But he lied to me and... now I can't...any more." John shook his head at his own words.

"Murray told me love was unconditional. Yet it seems that if honesty is absent, love can be recalled. Is that not a condition?"

"This is hard to explain, Rand. Unconditional love is never ending... but sometimes you can't live with the hurt... I mean you may still love the person... but not like before... Damn it Rand, yes, I still love him."

"Thank you, Doctor, you are very good at explaining things. I love you Doctor, unconditionally."

"Thank you, Rand. I love you too." said John.

Murray popped his head in. "On my way to the shop. See ya there later, Captain?"

"Yes, Myc said he might be a little late."

"As always. I'll make him some baked fish in wine and herb sauce. He'll like that after a hard day. Would you like.."

"Noooo, I like me regular Friday special, Mate. Extra sauce!" John licked his lips.

"Murray?" Rand called.

"Yes, me darlin'?" said Murray

"Do you love Doctor Watson?" Murray looked at John and smiled. "Of course I do, Rand. The Captain's a good friend and I love all me friends."

"I'm... glad." Murray and John exchanged looks. "Our boy is growing up!" Murray laughed and gave John a quick kiss on the forehead. "See ya later!"

John smiled and thought about how much Rand reminded him of Sherlock.

"Sherlock." John sighed.

.oOOo.

"Soon." Sherlock thought. "This will be over soon. The Baron is losing his grip on the threads. He never should have trusted his idiot sons. It is all unraveling now." 

Sherlock sat in yet another dingy room in yet another country that was not home. "I so want to go home. Home to John. We will start again. This time I will cherish every moment. I won't be selfish, scared and boring. I'll be John's lover and partner. I'll never leave him again." Sherlock thought.

He reached into his pocket and took out the yellowed page he had taken from John's old poetry book. He read it again for the hundredth time:

This Quiet Love 

The morning sleep still in your eyes,  
You smiled at me and I glowed inside.  
Over coffee steaming hot and strong,  
You buttered my toast and passed it on.  
While I was reading the daily paper,  
You threw down a journal for me to read later.  
Then opened the curtain to let in the light,  
Stopped as you passed to squeeze my hand tight.

This quiet love on this simple day  
Means more to me than I can say.

The morning passed in sweet quietude,  
With busy work and things to do.  
You noticed my melancholy mood.  
Asked me to join you, if I would,  
On a walk and then a proper tea.  
As if you do not do enough for me.  
Taking my coat, you helped me on with it  
You caressed my shoulder and lingered a bit.

This quiet love on this simple day  
Means more to me than I can say.

In the evening you built a bright fire.  
The light reflecting my growing desire.  
You sat by my side contemplating the flames.  
Your eyes all aglow, your mind far away.  
Reaching, unseeing, you grasped my arm.  
Here by our hearth, so safe and warm,  
You turned towards me bathed in firelight.  
Your face full of innocent trust in the night.

This quiet love on this simple day  
Means more to me than I can say.

Sherlock closed his eyes and pictured the domestic scenes, and played them over and over in his mind. The warmth he craved flowed all around him and settled on his heart. "Soon, soon,soon." he repeated.

There was a noise outside, Sherlock always on guard, listened. It was only the bartender leaving for the night. His car headlights flashed briefly across the room. They were reflected in the mirror for a moment.

Sherlock remembered his vision. About two months ago now. He was tired and depressed, his plans at a standstill. He had bought some cocaine at the seedy hotel's bar. And sought some comfort from his cunning old friend. He stopped to read Victorian John's poem. He hadn't used since, well, since many months before John met him and never since. But John would never know. Never ask. Still he was a bit nervous. He thought he saw a motion and looked up from the poem's yellowed page. There in the mirror was a Victorian gentleman with a mustache. It was Victorian John.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I am Doctor John H.Watson. I am here to tell you that the cocaine you are about to use is tainted. It will kill you instantly if you inject it, Sir. Please, destroy it or at least test it. My Holmes would at least test its potency first."

"What? What are you? Have I been drugged already?" Sherlock looked around expecting kidnappers to appear any moment.

"Mr. Holmes I am the author of that poem in your hand. I am quite honoured that you have kept it close to your heart. That's just what my Holmes did when he attempted to deceive me with a false death. Really, over a hundred years and you Holmes' still think we Watson's are imbeciles. Although your Watson believed you and tried to take his own life, poor man. If my Holmes hadn't intervened I hate to think..."

"Take his life? John?" Sherlock was truly shocked it never occurred to him that John might..."

"With his revolver." said Victorian John.

Sherlock remembered the nights he spent waiting and listening for the safety to be clicked on John's gun. How could he be so stupid. This vision may have been drugged induced but he wanted him to tell him about John.

"Is he alright now?" Sherlock asked the vision.

"Yes, but he took your death very hard indeed. You may return to a changed man. Take heart, Mr. Holmes, your love will save him again. Test that cocaine and you will see I am telling you the truth. Hurry, Sir, for my time is almost up!"

Sherlock tasted the cocaine and sure enough it was tainted. He spit it out and looked back to the now empty mirror. "Thank you, John." He whispered.

.oOOo.

John was walking towards Murray's Fish & Chips. His walk was strong and confident. Like a soldier going into battle for the first time. He even had a smile on his face again, although it never reached his eyes anymore.

SHATTERED GLASS! RAISED VOICES! SCREAMS!

John broke into a run. "No! No! No! No! No!" His mind raced as he headed towards Murray's door.

Outside Murray's on the sidewalk was a young man's body. Shot through the head. John knew he was already gone. John looked through the shattered front door. Murray was on the floor. John pulled Rand out of his pocket and shouted into the phone. "Agent down! Send an ambulance to Murray's shop, Rand, immediately. Inform Mycroft. Murray's down."

"Yes, Doctor." Rand routed the nearest ambulance to the scene himself, and sighed.

"Murray! I'm here!" John grabbed some kitchen towels and knelt beside Murray. The bullet wound was too close to the heart, might have nicked his lung. John applied pressure.

"Not a kill shot, Captain, she was after the boy. 'e 'ad information..." Murray's breathing was labored. "'e was 'igh... wanted to sell info... I saw the glint of 'er gun... on the roof... stepped in the way..." John whispered, "Oh, Murray, no."

"Stupid kid, ran for it... I saved 'im and 'e ran for it... 'eard the second shot..." Murray took a painful breath and closed his eyes for a moment. 

"Murray stay with me, you'll be alright! You'll be fine, ambulance is on it's way. Myc will be here soon. Stay with me, alright?" John's voice cracked in his effort to hold back his tears. "Not Murray. Not Murray." He thought.

"Captain! Underground terrorist group... bomb... targetin' Parliament... Underground... terrorist... the boy told me... overheard some big politician... soon, Captain, tell Myc."

"You tell him, he'll be here. Here he is." Mycroft ran through the door, knelt on the floor across from John, and cradled Murray gently in his arms."

"Oh, Sarge, Sarge, no!" Mycroft looked pleadingly at John. "Sniper, Mary most likely, after the kid outside. Kid had information about a terrorist attack. Murray stepped in the way, one shot near the heart. He's got a chance Myc."

Mycroft processed the information and said "Always the hero, Sarge, one of the things I love about you, always saving lives, always saving my life."

"Life worth savin', my love." Mycroft's tears were landing on Murray's face. "Myc, none o' that. I loved my life, I 'ad a good run. I love ya, always will, my darlin'."

"I love you, Sarge, don't do this. Stay with me. Don't leave me alone."

"I won't ever leave ya, love, I promise, just think o' me, I'll be there. Ya got Rand. 'e's got me in 'im, I've left that for ya. Take care of Rand, and keep the Captain close, stop all this fuckin' around with Sherlock and bring 'im home, OK? Ya need 'im love... I love ya so much, death don't matter, nobody kills my love for ya Myc... forever... eternal... 'ave faith in it, love... 'ave faith in it, love..."

"Sarge, Sarge, no, no!" Mycroft kissed Murray and felt the smile under his lips slowly fade. Mycroft inhaled the brave Sergeant's last breath. Mycroft would hold it eternally.

.oOOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there are any Murray fans out there I am truly sorry. But, in my defense, it's Gatiss' fault. In S3E1 he wrote so many times 'An agent died getting this information' that I had to provide a brave agent. And it explains Mycroft's behavior. He believes caring is a disadvantage because he has cared deeply and felt loss.
> 
> I feel awful about it really, I need to go drink some tea and settle my nerves. I never knew the awful responsibility of caring for characters before. It's terrible.
> 
> I could use a comment! Thank you for reading and leaving Kudos. I love you all!


	27. Screams on the Wind

The Home of Mrs. Cecil Forrester, London, England, 1889.

When Mrs. Cecil Forrester a.k.a. Cathy Mersy took two orphans, Dora and Davey into her home, she felt she had been given a great gift. When Miss Mary Morstan came into her home as governess to the children, Cathy felt her life was complete. So when little Davey's Eighth Birthday came along on January 6th, Cathy wanted it to be the best birthday the darling boy ever had. She was willing to give him whatever his boy's heart desired. Davey's passions seemed to include getting himself in trouble and harboring the most repulsive "Pets" in his jacket pockets. His sister had warned Miss Mary to always make Davey empty his pockets outside the kitchen door. After finding wiggling earthworms in Davey's bed, all the ladies of the household took Dora's advice to heart.

Cathy was ready, if the boy wanted a pony, he would have it. She braced herself and asked the little man,"What would you like for your birthday?" 

Davey bit his lip, and looked at his sister who was crocheting by the fire. "Dora is making me new mittens. Red ones." He thought. Dora had shown him the wondrous basket of yarn Cathy gave her. "I picked the colour myself. What more could I need?" He went to Dora as he always did when confused or upset and hugged her. "Dora smells delicious, like sugar and fairy cakes, and New Mummy dresses her like a Princess." Davey liked that.

"Davey," said Dora, "Mother means you to have another present, from her. You may really ask for anything you wish, within reason, young man." Dora was only 10, but caring for her brother on the streets had made her mature and wary. Dora was always worried Davey would be too much for their new benefactor and kept a close eye on him, ready to run if things went awry. "We would run," she thought, "to Mr. Holmes."

As if reading her mind, Davey suddenly made his decision. He stood before Cathy and folded his hands "I would wish, please, for a cake, Ma'am, and to share it with Dora, Miss Mary, you... and Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson!" Davey ran back to Dora and buried his head in her lap. "Was that alright, Dora?" Davey was actually fearful he had ruined everything by asking too much.

Cathy, much moved at the selfless request, went to the children and patted and kissed their heads. "I shall send an invitation today, Davey. I'll let you know when they reply."

.oOOo.

Holmes sat in Mrs. Forrester's Home on January 6th, his own birthday, with a plate full of cake in his hand and a wiggly little boy in his lap. He was still amazed at his Watson's ability to make him do things he absolutely hates, and get him to do them willingly. "Love is a curious thing." he mused, while eating his shared birthday cake. 

When Holmes put down his empty plate. Davey put a box wrapped in messy paper in his hand. Open my present now Mr. Holmes, I made it myself. Well, when I say made..." 

Cathy, Mary, and Dora looked towards the boy in alarm."Oh no, Davey, what have you done?" whispered Dora. Her Mother put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. "I'm sure it's lovely." she said reassuringly. Mary and Cathy exchanged worried looks. John looked on beaming at his secret husband and the adorable child.

Holmes cleared his throat and began to unwrap his present. He had already received many little presents and was a bit overwhelmed at all the thoughtfulness on his behalf. He took off the lid of the box and looked inside. His eyes grew wide and a genuine smile lit up his face. "Davey! You did this yourself? For me? It's... it's... he pulled a dead bat out of the box and held it high to examine it.

The ladies were horror struck! Cathy gave a tiny scream and grabbed Mary. Dora covered her eyes. John began to chuckle.

Sherlock continued.''It's marvelous! What a perfect specimen of a common pipistrelle! How came you by it?" Sherlock asked, obviously thrilled by the gift.

"Fought a cat for it, Sir!" Sherlock looked closely. "Yes, I see the claw marks! I see you stuffed it as well. Lovely stitches, young man!"

"I watched Doctor Watson when he stitched up my arm. And to finish I brushed him real good with my hair brush" It was Mary's turn to let out a gasp and a small cry, she hugged Cathy tighter. Davey was overjoyed with the praise and paid no heed to the traumatized Ladies. "Look Doctor Watson, just like you!" 

John composed his face and said, "Well done, my boy, why you have it in you to become a surgeon!" Davey marvelled at the thought.

"Yes, well done, Davey. I believe I will have this specimen framed and display it in Baker Street." Davey Hugged Sherlock and said, "Happy Birthday, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock patted his back. "Happy Birthday, Davey."

.oOOo.

When the children had gone to bed, and the Ladies and Holmes were enjoying coffee, and laughing over Davey's antics, John felt the time had come to pop the question. He stood, hands behind his back, and paced about the dining room. "Ladies, Holmes and I have a proposition to lay before you. It is of quite a personal nature." John looked at Sherlock for support, and Sherlock quickly asked for another piece of cake. He was going to enjoy this, after all it was his birthday. Sherlock was given cake and he sat back to watch everyone's reactions. John sighed and continued.

"Holmes and I... I mean we have been... when we were in France..." John was becoming incoherent. Sherlock was fascinated.

"We know, Doctor." Cathy said kindly and took Mary's hand. "We understand your position and difficulties," she said pointedly.

"How can we help?" said Mary.

John smiled at the two sweet ladies in front of him. "We would like Mary to marry me... us... Yes. Would you even consider it?"

The ladies smiled, and John went into detail about the plans John and his friends had made. He added that Mary could 'divorce' him at any time. And that Doctor Conan Doyle had volunteered his help with Mary's case. She would be well cared for, no matter what she decided to do.

"I have no objections, Doctor Watson, but I would like to talk to Cathy privately. I will not keep you waiting long for an answer, and may I say that I am most honoured to be your choice in such a intimate affair. I promise you what we said here will go no further, no matter what I decide."

.oOOo.

John and Mary were married in a private ceremony in front of a Judge, who owed Sherlock a favor. Sherlock and Cathy were the witnesses. But the reception, which took place at Cathy's stately home was lively and festive celebration. Cathy wanted everyone to celebrate friendship, love and a plan well done. There were quite a few guests, Arthur and his family, Oscar and a handsome friend, and friends of the bride and groom. Even Mycroft was invited, but declined sending as a wedding gift the biggest turkey anyone had ever seen. Sherlock and John had laughed heartily over the gesture, but Cathy thought it was just right for her party. Dora and Davey certainly agreed with their Mother and took great joy watching it cook.

After the feast, Davey, who had long ago ruined his new black velvet jacket, was hanging from the stair banister his shirttails flying and a red scarf 'round his head. Davey and the Conan Doyle children were having a riotous game of Pirates on the grand staircase. Sherlock was watching the children play, occasionally answering a Pirate question for the rambunctious tykes.

"Mr. Holmes, Sir," asked Kingsley Conan Doyle, watching Davey sword fighting with his sister. "When Pirates board a ship do they sword fight with everyone?"

"No, they often use flintlock pistols, and it is a great advantage to hold prisoners for ransom." answered Holmes, which led to an even more riotous game of hold little sister for ransom.

Sherlock chuckled and walked into the quiet sitting room. There by the fire was a sleeping Dora, her blue hair ribbon and dress still in perfect order. Bending over her was Mary.

"May I assist you, Mrs. Watson?" Sherlock's heart clenched with a bit of jealousy at the new title, not aimed at John and Mary, but at the fact that he could not acknowledge to society that John was his own dear Husband.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" her blue eyes softened at the sight of him. "Sherlock." She smiled. "Could you possibly carry Dora to the nursery, for me? I'm afraid I'm a bit tired..."

"Of course, Mary." Sherlock liked that title better, he smiled back, and lifted the sleeping angel like she was a feather.

They headed up the stairs, hearing cries of "Watch out, Admiral Nelson and his wife are coming! They are burying a brave sailor at sea!" Mary could not scold the children like a dutiful governess, since she was giggling into her handkerchief.

Sherlock waited for Mary to put Dora to bed, so that he might offer his arm to Mary and escort her back to the party. When Mary reappeared, she took his arm gratefully, and hesitated.

"What is it Mary?" Sherlock asked quietly. He feared the excitement of the day might have been too much for her. Maybe they had asked too much from this brave Lady.

"It's nothing, Sherlock, something just crossed my mind. In all our planing and secret lives, we seem to have accidentally formed a family. Cathy and I, John, you, the children. I never had a family before. My father took care of my needs as a child and I am cherish his memory, but to be surrounded by people who love you, I hardly know how to handle myself properly." she smiled sadly.

Sherlock nodded realizing she was right. All day he had had a strange feeling of being a part of something special. He thought it was all John's doing as usual. Making him feel at home where ever John was. But now he realized he hardly spoke to John all day, and it was fine. He thought of Cathy's joyful hugs, Mary's chaste kisses, Davey's worshiping eyes, and Dora's sweet sleeping form cradled in his arms. And John, who's wistful eyes kept finding him all day, as if to ground him and say,"All this is for you, my love, only for your sake."

"Mary." Sherlock was greatly moved, and Mary squeezed his arm in encouragement. "I promise you, I will do all I can for you, Cathy and the children. I will always be there for you all."

"Dear Sherlock. They will all need your generous heart when I am gone." Sherlock tried not to stiffen. "I am so glad I did this ridiculous thing. I shall be quite happy and content now, I'm sure."

Sherlock kissed her forehead. "Shall we?" He led her to the stairs. "I have a surprise for my Watson, I am going to make a Best Man speech! You don't want to miss it, my dear Mary."

Mary laughed and clung to his strong arm. She wouldn't miss it for the world.

.oOOo.

John sat in his office making some notes on his patients, while Dora straightened and refilled medical supplies in the examination room. Mary was resting upstairs. Mary, when she felt well enough, acted as John's nurse. And Dora loved nothing better than playing nurse with Doctor Watson. She was actually quite good and helpful. John could depend on her to always fetch what ever he needed quickly and efficiently. The patients adored her.

Two years had gone by in a happy mix of adventures with Sherlock, and domestic bliss at home. "Well, all my homes," he thought. Sherlock and John managed to be together most days. They had John's residence, 221b, Cathy's home and sometimes Arthur's home all available to John and Sherlock as safe places to be themselves openly. It was a pleasant mix of intimate moments, work. and evenings with family and friends. John was content and happy, and helping Mary was a bittersweet joy for them all.

Sherlock had been asked by the French government to take on an important case. John hesitated to let Sherlock go, but Michel Vernet was the one requesting it. Michel had followed his Father's and Sherlock's footsteps and was also working for the Secret Service as a consultant on horse racing. Sherlock had returned triumphant. And had started right away on another case, which he told John was tedious work, not something John would find interesting. John thought Sherlock was up to something, but did not want to leave Mary alone while she was suffering through a cold. So John was overjoyed when Sherlock came into his office unexpectedly late one evening.

His joy at seeing him turned to concern when John got a good look at him. Sherlock was anxious, looking out the window and drawing the blinds. He was pale and staggered a little, his lip was swollen and his knuckles were bleeding.

"Sherlock!" What has happened! Are you injured?" John led him to a chair and started examining his face and hands, reaching for the antiseptic and bandages Dora had stocked earlier.

"I had a visitor last night, my good Doctor. Professor Moriarty payed me a call." John froze, his eyes widened with fear.

"Sherlock, no! Did he do this? Are you alright? Holmes! Tell me!" John grew pale and grabbed Sherlock's shoulders.

"I'm alright, my Watson. These last few weeks I have formed my own web around Moriarty and have pulled the strings tight. I have him, my Watson, and on Monday, Scotland Yard will arrest the Spider and all his spiderlings. Moriarty threatened me, and these bruises are the result of a large thug trying to stop me from getting to my Watson, as if anyone could." Sherlock tried to laugh it off without success.

"Holmes!" John was panicking."You should have told me what was going on." John started to care for Sherlock's bruises which, fortunately were minor. 

"It's only the last week or so that everything has come to a head. Lestrade can take it from here. He suggested it might be a good idea for me to take a little vacation for my health on the Continent. I leave tomorrow morning. Can you get away, and accompany me? Is Mary well enough?" 

"Of course! Mary is well. Arthur will call on her. Cathy will be here tomorrow anyway to pick up Dora. Mary won't be alone a moment." 

"Good. John, perhaps I shouldn't stay here tonight. I have arranged for Mycroft himself to take us to Victoria in the morning. I would not wish for anything to happen with Mary and the child in the house." 

"You will not leave my sight until Moriarty is behind bars, Holmes! What are you thinking! How dare you even think about leaving my side tonight. I shall stand watch while you rest. I will sleep tomorrow on the train." John was already reaching for his gun in the locked desk drawer. Sherlock knew better than to disagree with Captain Watson. 

Sherlock and John stood and looked at each other. 

"John, if anything should happen to..." John stepped forward and embraced him. 

"Shhh. I won't hear it, love. Nothing will happen to you with me by your side. I won't allow it. Now go to bed and sleep. I love you, dear." John kissed him goodnight. 

Sherlock let all his tension and fears melt into the kiss. He believed John. Nothing would harm him if John was by his side. 

"I love you, my Watson." said Sherlock. 

.oOOo. 

Sherlock and John stood by the Reichenbach Falls listening to the uncanny voices that seemed to come on the wind from far below. They stood close to each other nearly touching. They had had a pleasant journey so far. But both could feel the presence of a very real threat. Moriarty's web was destroyed, but Moriarty had escaped justice and both men knew, he would have revenge on his mind. 

Sherlock finally took John's hand. Sherlock knew what he had to do, and he was waiting. Waiting for Moriarty to find them. Sherlock was at peace, he would gladly give his life to rid the world of Moriarty. His death would not be in vain, he would be making the world a better place. A better place for his Watson and his little family and his friends. Any time now it would happen. 

John knew Sherlock was up to something. Their time together had been glorious, but something was wrong. Sherlock looked sad when he didn't know John was looking. Sherlock was going to do something extremely stupid. It was only a matter of time. John squeezed Sherlock's hand. 

They both looked up when a messenger from the hotel caught up to them. He handed them a letter from the owner. It said that Dr. Watson was needed at the hotel, an Englishwoman was dying, and wanted an English Doctor. John hesitated and then said he would come. Sherlock said he would meet John later and they would dine together. The messenger agreed to be Sherlock's guide. 

Sherlock knew this was it. Moriarty was closing in. He meant for Sherlock to fall. Sherlock was ready to make sure Moriarty would fall with him. He watched till John was out of sight. John would not understand. John would grieve. But John would be strong for Mary. And Mary would help him with his loss. John was in good hands. The frightened messenger ran away and Sherlock saw a man coming up the path. Sherlock leaned his walking stick against a rock and waited. 

John knew this was it. The message was fake. And even if it was real, he would never leave his Husband alone. He passed a man on the path heading towards the falls. Their eyes did not meet, but John knew who it was. Moriarty. John jumped off the path and headed back to Sherlock. John knew what he had to do to protect the one he loved. He would rid Sherlock of this threat or fall trying. 

John quietly made his way up the hill, hiding in the brush beside the path. He stopped when he saw Sherlock and Moriarty having a conversation. 

"May I leave a note, Sir? That is what people do." Sherlock took a small notebook and pen from his pocket and began to write. A folded paper fell unnoticed to the ground. Sherlock scribbled a note, and placed it in his silver cigarette case on top of the rock he was leaning on. 

John noticed Moriarty had no weapon. It dawned on him that he was witnessing the suicide of a deranged man who's only thought was to take Sherlock with him into death. John readied himself. When Moriarty lunged at Sherlock, Sherlock fell back on the slippery grass. John jumped from cover and grabbed Moriarty pushing them both to the brink. John and Moriarty struggled for a second or two till the soft ground beneath their feet gave way. Sherlock screamed, "JOHN!" and flung himself to the edge reaching through thin air and latching onto something solid and warm. Peering over the edge Sherlock saw that he had hold of John's arm and Moriarty had hold of John's leg. John tried to kick him with his other foot. After what seemed like ages, Moriarty looked at Sherlock who was desperately holding on to John. Moriarty laughed and let go. His laughter echoed until he disappeared into the abyss. The uncanny voices of the Falls took up the maniacal laughter and sent it ringing through the air. 

"John, I've got you, please, please hold on to me! Do not let go!" Sherlock was making sure he had good footing and a good hold on John. 

"Not... letting... go... " John said through gritted teeth. Sherlock used all his strength to pull John into his arms. 

They both struggled to their feet, out of breath and exhausted. 

"John... John are you alright? Are you hurt?" Sherlock wrapped his arms around his husband. 

"Get away from me you bloody bastard!" John shouted, pushing Sherlock away. Sherlock looked stunned. 

"You knew! You knew Moriarty was coming! You were going to kill yourself! How dare you! How dare you do that. Do that to me! You Bastard! You left me a note? A bloody note?" John picked up the folded paper from the ground. Sherlock gasped. John opened it to find it was one of his poems, taken from his notebook "This Quiet Love." John glanced at the cigarette case which also held a note, John's eyes opened wide. 

"No, Holmes! Oh, NO! You were going to FAKE YOUR OWN DEATH!" 

Sherlock was frightened. John looked murderous. 

"John I was ready to die, but if I didn't..." 

"YOU WERE NOT GOING TO TELL ME YOU WERE ALIVE?" John grabbed Sherlock's hair and dragged him to the edge of the cliff. 

"Look down there!" John shook Sherlock's head and forced him to look. "If I had come back here and thought you dead. I WOULD HAVE JOINED YOU! YOU HEAR THOSE SCREAMS ON THE WIND?" John shook Sherlock's head again. And let go. 

"Those would have been my screams." he said very quietly. 

Sherlock fell to the ground and buried his head in his hands as sobs ripped from his throat. John walked away, sat down with his back to a rock and fell into blackness, the Reichenbach Falls echoing in his ears. 

.oOOo. 

John woke to the subdued light of late afternoon. He felt unusually warm and comfortable. He looked around to find he was literally wrapped in Sherlock Holmes. John was sitting in his lap, and Sherlock's limbs were encasing him. Sherlock's coat cast over him. John stretched and felt his muscles sing with pain. 

The Falls. Moriarty. Sherlock. 

"Sherlock?" Are you alright?" John turned to look at Sherlock's face. What he saw there made him want to kick himself for his earlier rage. 

"Yes, John. Are you injured? I could not tell. You would not wake up." Sherlock sounded like he was in shock from worry and fear. 

"I'm alright. I blacked out. How long?" 

"About an hour. John, please forgive me..." 

"Sherlock I'm sorry..." 

Both men smiled. 

"We are both insane, my dear. Thank the stars we have each other," said John kindly. He reached up and kissed Sherlock who gratefully kissed back. 

John rearranged himself into a comfortable position to talk to Sherlock. 

"What do we do, love?" said John 

"John, I have to finish this. I have to break down the rest of Moriarty's web. He was not alone." 

"You are not alone, you don't have to do it alone." John caressed his cheek. "I'll follow you anywhere." 

"John, I need to die, I need for you to make everyone think I'm dead." 

John sighed. "Alright, Sherlock, what do I do?" 

"You go to the hotel and make a big show of the forged letter, get a police officer to accompany you back here and..." 

"And act like my best friend just died." 

"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock embraced John and whispered in his ear, "I love you. I want this over. I want you safe." 

"I'll get to Montpelier, to Michel Vernet. You will meet me there and we will carefully make up a plan. Then you will return to Mary."

"What?" John got to his feet. Sherlock followed. 

"Mary needs you, John. We promised her." 

"Mary has lots of people looking after her, she'll be fine." 

"She needs you, John, we promised." 

"You need me and we promised. We promised to never leave each other." Sherlock closed his eyes and pulled John close once again. John thought it felt like the final problem. 

"I'll come back to you, my Watson, I promise that." whispered Sherlock, as he pulled John close for one final kiss. 

.oOOo. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all you dear readers! Hope you liked the orphans. Every story needs orphans. Love to you all!


	28. A Heart is a Precious Thing

Drunk Tank, New Scotland Yard, London, England, 2014

John sat on the floor of the tiny cell with his dizzy head resting against the cold tile wall. Sherlock snored quietly beside him on the hard bed. It was the time of a drunken spree when you really need another drink or a warm bed. John did not have either, so he sat on the cold floor thinking even colder thoughts.

John glanced at Sherlock, and thought of last night. Sherlock trying so hard to give John a proper pub crawl. "I really did enjoy myself, especially when we played that silly game. Present King of England..." John chuckled to himself, his heart warming at the thought.

"Oh, Sherlock. What the Hell should I do?" he whispered. Sherlock made a small noise in his sleep and smiled. The smile he always gave to John and no one else.

John decided to think it through one more time. After all he wasn't going anywhere. He wished he had Rand to help him. after Murray's death, Rand had been a great comfort to him, as John struggled to be of comfort to Mycroft.

.oOOo.

The night after Murray's funeral, Mycroft and John were on the sofa in the Victorian sitting room of 187 North Gower. They were sharing a bottle of some fine old brandy that Mycroft favored. Mycroft seemed quiet and composed. John was worried about him.

"John, I'm going to bring Sherlock back. I'm going myself as soon as I can." Mycroft waited for John's response.

"I'm coming..."

"No, John. It's ending. I can do this. I need you to get engaged to... that woman. I want you to keep a closer watch on her." said Mycroft.

John took a breath. "Myc why not just bring her in now. We know she murdered Murray. Why the game? I'm so sick of this game!" 

"I want her to stand trial, John. For all of the murders she's committed. I don't want anything to go wrong. We've got her off guard. And there's something else brewing. I think she may be a part of it. We only have the name of a potential terrorist group called 'The Guardian Society'. I have people investigating. You are doing a wonderful job Agent Watson. I'm proud of you." 

Mycroft sounded like a proud older brother and John smiled. "I think too good a job. She seems like she's in love with me." said John. 

"All the better. But always remember she has no heart. Unlike you. You are quite lovable, I caught myself being jealous of you and Murray a few times. Silly, I know."

Mycroft moved over to the large mahogany sideboard and rubbed its warm veneer with his hand. "This old piece, was said to have come from a house on Baker Street. Murray and I liked to think it came from 221b. It might have."

John looked at the antique as if for the first time. Its carved woodwork, paneled cabinets and beveled mirror was a testament to the beauty of the Victorian age. John thought back to his despair the night Victorian Sherlock saved his life. Tears began to swim in his eyes.

"Myc, I'm so sorry, for your loss." John moved towards Mycroft. "I will do anything you want me to do. Anything."

"John, Murray and I talked about this... how one of us might die... we knew... and still we wasted so much time being apart. Don't make that mistake with my brother. I'm bringing him home for me and for you. We will end this game and I will release you from service if you so wish. I want for you to forgive Sherlock and love him eternally. I want my brother to have what I had, without the regrets...

As Mycroft finally gave in to tears, John hugged him close.

"I've said it before John, there is no advantage in caring... If you don't care, you don't... hurt." sobbed Mycroft.

"I agree. Too bad we both are shit at not caring." Mycroft smiled through his tears.

.oOOo.

John shuffled a bit on the hard floor of their cell. He had moved in with Mary, got engaged. And he had forgiven Sherlock.

"How could I not forgive him?" John thought back. "When I first saw him in that restaurant, I was so angry, I lost it. I had so many speeches prepared, and all I could think of was how much I loved him. so I tried to kill him, the bloody bastard." he looked at Sherlock fondly. "I feel like I'm punishing him and I don't want to. He's trying so hard to keep me in his life. Desperate. He would take a bullet for me. I've always known that. That's what partners do. But this man is planning a wedding for me. Because he loves me enough to want to see me happy." John put his heavy head in his hands.

"I've got to tell him." He said out loud.

John almost told him when Sherlock first came back. Almost told him after the bonfire. 

John shut his eyes remembering the feeling of being unable to move, smoke curling around his body, heat from the fire scorching his skin. John shook his head. "And Sherlock's hands. Pulling me out. Resting on my cheek. His eyes as he said my name. Was Mary there? All I remember is Sherlock's face taking me from death to life again. I almost told him in the ambulance when he carefully put the oxygen mask back on my face and said, 'I know, John, no talking now, just breathe deep.' What did he know?"

And when John sat in his own chair at 221B and heard Sherlock call Murray, 'An Agent who died',it was all he could do to continue his dimwitted act like it was just another case. When what he wanted to do was hold Sherlock in his arms and tell him everything he had kept secret from him.

John almost told him when he asked Sherlock to be best man. Almost told him when John realized that Sherlock doubted he was John's best friend. Almost told him when Sherlock went on to involve himself in the wedding. The wedding that should have been Sherlock's and John's.

John felt wetness on his cheek. "Bloody Hell." he blurted out.

"John? What's wrong? Are you ill? What is it? What did I do?" Sherlock sat up in a panic. He reached for John's arm to help him to sit on the bed next to him. John let Sherlock help. ,John looked into Sherlock's face so full of innocence and concern and pulled him into an embrace. John let the tears flow, while Sherlock held him gingerly, like he was afraid to break him. But John was already broken and it was finally time to confess.

"John, please, tell me." Sherlock pleaded.

"You did nothing wrong, Sherlock. I think you've always been right. And I've been an arse from the beginning." 

"i don't see how that statement could be accurate, John." Sherlock looked puzzled. John took a deep breath. 

"Sherlock I have some things to tell you, but first I want to say that I still love you. As much as I did that weekend at Dartmoor. As much as I did, well, yeah, more than when we first met." 

"I...love you too, John. " Sherlock said hesitantly. John could tell Sherlock was confused.

"Sherlock, just listen. Let me get this out, OK?" Sherlock nodded and folded his hands, looking at John like he was a client. "Good, right, well, Sherlock." John closed his eyes for a moment. 

"During the Blind Banker case, your brother, Mycroft..." John felt Sherlock stiffen, but continued. "Asked me to work for him. As an Agent... as a Secret Agent... with the Secret Service... umm... officially. And I accepted. I told him I wouldn't spy on you, just protect you, like I always did anyway, just... official." John stopped and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock's face was like a stone. John knew he just needed to charge ahead. 

"I met Mycroft every Friday for Fish & Chips at Murray's. Ahh... Murray was an Agent also. A fine Agent. The best. And a wonderful friend. I lived with him after you died. He took good care of me. I loved him, Sherlock... and so did Mycroft. He was Mycroft's life partner. They were very much in love for many years. Mycroft is devastated at his death. So am I." John looked up. Sherlock's was frowning, his mouth working. 

"No, Sherlock. Let me finish." John continued, he knew the worst was yet to come. 

"When you died, I tried to kill myself. with my gun. But something stopped me. I had a vision. In the mirror at Baker Street I saw Victorian Sherlock, you know the one from my dreams, the one from the poetry book? He told me you were alive and I fainted. Murray found me and took me to his home, his and Mycroft's home. 187 North Gower. Sherlock made a strange sound like a low growl. 

"Murray's AI computer, RAND helped me find you. You... have a tracking device embedded in your body somewhere. We found you and Mycroft in France after your funeral. I was so very angry at you, Sherlock. I thought I had stopped loving you." Sherlock buried his head in his hands, still listening. "So I trained to be a field Agent and followed you. I was fooling myself, I never stopped loving you, I wanted you safe." said John. 

Sherlock looked up in surprise, but said nothing. 

"Being an Agent became very important to me, Sherlock. I'm good at it now. I even have a case of my own I'm working on with Mycroft." John waited then took the plunge. 

"You see, Sherlock, Mary... is an assassin. Has been for years. She's connected to Moriarty somehow. She is after me. Wants to finish what Moriarty started. Burn me. She murdered my friend Murray. And... she murdered your brother Sherringford." Sherlock gasped and stood. He began pacing around the tiny cell. John pulled his feet up onto the bed and hugged his knees. He put his aching head down and waited for the shrapnel to hit from the bomb he hurled at his true love. 

"I'm done, Sherlock, I'm done." John said sadly. 

Sherlock was silent for a few more moments. John heard the pacing stop in front of him. He pulled his knees closer to his body. 

"John Hamish Watson, look at me!" Sherlock demanded. John slowly looked up. 

A beautiful smile played across Sherlock's face. Sherlock grabbed John's face with both hands and kissed the top of his head with a loud smacking sound. 

"John Hamish Watson, you are the most brilliant, the most fantastic, wondrous man that ever lived!" Sherlock danced around the cell."Brilliant! BRILLIANT!" He threw his hands in the air. 

"YOU! A Secret Agent! YOU! The Invisible Soldier! YOU! Tracking me down with AI computers, risking your life at every turn! And me completely in the dark! Brilliant, brilliant, BRILLIANT!" Sherlock pulled John up and danced him around the room, till they were both dizzy and out of breath. 

They stood looking at each other, exhilarated. John's eyes still glistened with unshed tears, but his astonishment put a grin on his face. Sherlock's expression was one of amazement and love.

Sherlock looked at John while rubbing John's arms fondly. "John, I'm sorry for your loss. I liked Murray. I never guessed there was any more to him than what I observed." 

"Yes, he was invisible. He taught me how to be invisible. That's how I helped you while you were away. That's why I can handle Mary. She thinks she has me figured out." said John. 

"How could anyone ever figure you out?" Sherlock said fondly. "...Then you never loved her?" He asked. 

"No, Sherlock. I loved Murray, but we were just friends. He adored your brother. And Mary is nothing but a murderer I'm trying wrap up so tight she'll never escape again. Sherlock, I love you and only you. And apparently nothing will ever change that." 

"Am I so transparent, John?" 

"Only to me."

"John... John, I love you so much." Sherlock pulled John into his arms, He kissed his neck, making John gasp with pleasure. Sherlock found John's mouth and kissed his lips. John kissed back with equal passion. 

"Sherlock. Yeah, finally. So much time wasted. I missed you. God, how I missed you." 

"I thought of you everyday, everything was for you. but you're right. We wasted so much time. Never again. I'll not leave you again." 

The kiss was healing them. Like the first warm wind of Spring after a long cold Winter. So long apart, the kiss brought them back to themselves. Happy and strong. Confident in each other's love. As each kiss ended another began, Loving hands explored warm bodies. Fingers remembering other embraces other times of love, noting the changes and the new scars. Wanting to catalog each and every curve of muscle, each change that marks the passing of time. 

Sherlock rested his head on John's. "Feeling a little dizzy, John." Sherlock staggered a bit. John guided him to the bed and had him lie down. John sat on the floor beside him and took his hand. 

"Mycroft never should have put you in such danger while I was gone. And he should have told me about Murray. I am his brother." Sherlock said quietly. 

"I don't pretend to understand Mycroft and why he acts the way he does towards you, but I became an Agent because I wanted too. He never tried to force me." said John. 

"But you are in grave danger nonetheless. If Mary ever finds out..." Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John. 

"Sherlock, I'm good at this game. I fooled you, I can continue to fool her. Sherlock no one can know we're in love. We have to act as if nothing happened in this cell. Can you do that?" asked John. 

"Of course, but I'll hate every minute. I miss you already." Sherlock squeezed John's hand. 

"There is one place we can be safe. Murray's house. Rand will protect us. We can meet there on a regular basis. Mycroft doesn't stay there much anymore, I go there frequently to get away from Mary." 

"We can't tell Mycroft." Sherlock stated. 

John hadn't considered that. "Why not? He wants us together, Sherlock, he told me." John marveled internally at how stupid two geniuses could be. 

"Please, keep this just between us, John?" 

John sighed, "OK, for now, but if I need to tell him to keep you safe, I will." 

"Good. Thank you. I think I need to sleep for a while. My head hurts." Sherlock grimaced. 

John chuckled. "Mine, too. Lestrade should be here soon to spring us. Go to sleep, love." 

"I love you, John." John smiled and closed his eyes. 

"John?" whispered Sherlock. 

"Umm?" mumbled John. 

"I had a vision too, one night, in a mirror. Victorian John... saved my life." 

John pried open his eyes "How on ..." 

"This brought him I think." Sherlock took a worn yellowed paper out of his pocket and handed it to John. 

John unfolded it and read it. He recognized the handwriting to be Victorian John's. But the poem was new to him. He read the last lines out loud. 

In the evening you built a bright fire. 

The light reflecting my growing desire. 

You sat by my side contemplating the flames. 

Your eyes all aglow, your mind far away. 

Reaching, unseeing, you grasped my arm. 

Here by our hearth, so safe and warm, 

You turned towards me bathed in firelight. 

Your face full of innocent trust in the night. 

This quiet love on this simple day 

Means more to me than I can say. 

"I found it on the floor one day. Fell out of the notebook I suppose. Victorian Sherlock carried it with him, and so do I. Right next to my heart." said Sherlock. 

John reached over and placed his hand on Sherlock's heart. 

"Such a precious thing, a heart. I'm glad we have two guardian angels looking out for ours." said John. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad Sherlock and John are back together! Took forever!
> 
> Thanks for reading and sticking with me. Love to all those precious hearts out there!
> 
> A comment now and then keeps me going. How about it? I could use some encouragement. LoVe, LoVe, LoVe. Let me feel the LoVe !


	29. Dweller Upon The Threshold

Doctor J .H. Watson's Kensington Residence, London, England, 1893

Mary was reclined on the sofa, her soft white blouse ruffled at the neck, showcased her delicate features Her face was beautiful with a blush of color across the cheek, a sweet smile on her lips. Her laughter filled the room.

Oscar Wilde had been reading to her some scenes from a new play he was writing, "The Importance of Being Earnest". 

"I hope you have not been leading a double life, pretending to be wicked and being good all the time. That would be hypocrisy." Oscar read out loud from his notes.

"Delightful, Oscar, delightful!" cried Mary.

"You are my favorite critic, my Lady!" he gallantly kissed her hand, and she laughed some more.

John and Arthur entered the room followed closely by Dora and Wiggins, who was carrying a laden tea tray in a dignified manner as becoming a newly appointed Officer of the Law.

Mary watched Wiggins place the tray on the tea table in front of her. Wiggins, now twenty, looked impressive in his crisp blue uniform. But Mary could still see the traces of the wild street boy he had been before the kind administrations of Holmes, Watson and Lestrade. She remembered with joy the dinner party Cathy gave in Wiggins honor when he became an officer. John and Lestrade had a battle over who was more proud. 

John had made a toast, "To the future Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard." Lestrade had seconded it with, "I'll dance at ya wedding and kiss ya ring when ya become the Chief."

But through it all Wiggins had remained the loyal, brave and loving Baker Street Irregular he always had been. And as an added bonus, his blue coat with brass buttons had resulted in a remarkable change in fifteen year old Dora. Wiggins was the recipient of Dora's first maidenly crush, which Wiggins treated with amused indifference with a small touch of pride. Mary hoped the future would see them together in reality. She did not dwell on her own reality, but let her imagination bring happy healthy future lives to all she loved. She did not want to waste any of her last days in self pity, she wanted to spend them surrounded by her little family and the busy nothings of life. 

"I'm takin' The Blessings to the ice rink, Mrs. Watson."said Wiggins as he handed Mary her tea. Mary laughed at the term of endearment. Cathy called Dora and Davey her 'Blessings' in a reverent tone like a prayer, but Wiggins sardonic street smart style made the title laughable, and his blue eyes twinkle. "Where's Davey hiding today?" Wiggins asked.

"He's in my examination room looking at something green and slimy under the microscope." said John calmly while sipping his tea.

Davey had discovered the world of Natural Science and could not get enough. If he wasn't studying a new species of insect, he was out in the abandoned lots and hidden waterways of London exploring the world of Nature. He devoured every book on the subject in Sherlock's library. He especially liked Entomology, and J. Henri Fabre was his hero, next to Holmes and Watson of course. John had promised him a trip to France one summer, after Sherlock's return. For the few people in the world that payed attention to such things still thought Sherlock was dead, and only the trusted members of Sherlock's extended family knew he was alive.

Dora cringed. "He better clean it up before we go. Come along, Officer Wiggins, I can't wait to teach you how to skate properly."

"What do you mean, 'properly', you glide around on the ice and try not to fall on your..."

"Wiggins!!!!" said four adult voices at once.

"...dignity." finished Wiggins. Dora giggled and pulled Wiggins out of the room.

.oOOo.

When the young people had gone, the conversation in the sunny sitting room took a serious turn.

"Colonel James Moriarty has published some letters accusing Sherlock of being a charlatan, and succumbing to insanity causing him to stalk Moriarty's innocent brother, murdering him in cold blood." said Arthur.

Mary gasped, and started to cough. Oscar poured her more tea and held it as she took a sip. John stood and grabbed a quilt from a chair.

"Perhaps this subject is too taxing for you, my dear, we can talk at another time.." John said as he covered Mary with the quilt. Oscar tucked it around her. Arthur and John exchanged knowing looks.

"I'm alright. I want to hear. I would not be able to rest without hearing all. Please?" Mary smiled at her friends and their concern. But she was secretly more concerned for them, especially Sherlock.

John and Arthur nodded. "It's this 'Guardian Society' he hides behind. They printed the letters, and they have the attention of everyone in England who ever even considered contributing to a charity. Sherlock is highly concerned about it. He thinks for all its seemingly good works, it may be a vast network of evil. All of his work unraveling Moriarty's web is finally leading him back to the very place he started. Right back to Cathy's concerns about 'The Guardian Society', years ago, the very thing that brought us all together. And forced Sherlock to leave us." John looked down at his empty teacup and wondered not for the first time today, if Sherlock was taking care of himself, if he was healthy and well fed. He highly doubted it.

"Will Sherlock return soon, then? " asked Oscar.

John shook his head, "When Moriarty died every slimy, crawling underling saw a chance for their day in the sun. Sherlock is making sure another Moriarty doesn't rise from the ashes. Sherlock's work is coming to an end, but not soon enough. Not soon enough." John sighed and rubbed his hand over his forehead. A headache was coming on, it seemed like he always had one, these days.

"What about Colonel Moriarty? Is he taking over from his brother?" asked Oscar. He glanced at Mary who had made a little noise. Mary was listening intently.

"It doesn't seem like it," answered Arthur. "We believe he may honestly think his brother is innocent. He is not the brighter brother, that we know. He is more likely a dupe."

"John, I think we should write another Adventure. The final problem Sherlock faced, and the subsequent solution to that problem." Arthur said.

"I...I could not, Arthur, I can not bear to think of that day! I could not!" John dropped his teacup and it shattered on the floor. "Sorry.." John looked at Mary, and started to picked up the shards. Arthur stooped to help him, and when they rose he took the shards from John's hand, placed them on the tea table, and embraced him. John was a little shocked, but then returned the embrace.

"I'm alright, Arthur." John said sadly as they broke apart. Arthur kept one hand on John's shoulder. Oscar and Mary looked on in silence, Oscar having taken Mary's hand in his. 

"John, you are not alright, not without Sherlock. You don't sleep, you hardly eat and the headaches are getting worse aren't they?" John closed his eyes and nodded.

"We need to end this. I will write a fabricated story about Sherlock's demise. By the time it's published, Sherlock may have already returned! It will confuse our readers for years. You won't ever need to write another story. Sherlock can return to being a private consulting detective, not a public character in a magazine serial."

"I agree, wholeheartedly, my dear." said Oscar. He glanced at Mary who was also nodding in agreement. "Let's end it on our end, and put this Colonel Moriarty in his place, and you must urge Sherlock to return. He is not alone and should begin to act like it. We are his strength and his allies. And he should not be living without his Heart. You need him back, John dear, you haven't recovered yet from your last trip abroad with him. And I have not seen you take pen to paper since your return. Holmes would swim home if I told him you had stopped writing poesy! I am tempted to use your little code and send him a telegram telling him just that. Don't think I won't!"

"Yes, alright, my friends. Let's handle Moriarty and end this. Yes, Arthur, go ahead and write what you feel is best. I trust you, I trust all of you." John smiled feebly, his head pounding. "If you don't mind, I'm going upstairs and rest a bit. Mary, don't sit up too long..."

"We'll take care of everything, John dear, go on and have a nap." said Oscar.

"Thank you." John said softly as his friends bid him a peaceful rest.

.oOOo.

John entered his bedroom with a sigh, he knew he would not sleep. The room was pleasant and bright, a gentle breeze played with the lace curtains at the window. John pulled his chair to a shadowy corner. 

"A life lived in fear..." John thought, "truly is a life half-lived." He hid his eyes from the ever changing light from the window. He had shunned daylight since his return from Bohemia. John's thoughts drifted as they always did towards Sherlock. 

.oOOo. 

John and Sherlock had traveled to Bohemia in search of the Baron. They decided to rest upon the journey, enjoying each other's company. They had started to feel refreshed, forgetting their burdensome quest, when Fate intervened.

Sherlock and John were pulled into a strange murder case far from home. But it led them to the Baron's murderous son and one step closer to ending the great game. John had written of his experience in his notebook. It was the last entry, for John's mind could no longer find solace in playing with words. His pen had been stilled by his frantic mind. 

Dweller Upon The Threshold

It is my joy and my pleasure  
To help Holmes in my leisure.  
I knew it since the very day we met.  
Though we were exhausted and ill  
We went to the Bohemian Hills,  
I never thought it a course I might regret.  
The first few days were a tonic  
For the body careworn and sick.  
Our spirits lifted as we walked paths never walked before.  
Holmes’ mind dwelt on ancient ruins  
Mine dwelt on our health and soon  
Our strength returned with an eagerness to explore.

I should have known, it would not last,  
Like so many times in our past,  
The locals broke our peace with a tale of woe.  
A Lady dead by a fire  
Her brothers, mad, beside her.  
I should have known, how our travels would go.  
“Radix pedis diaboli,” a root,  
Poison powder, The Devil’s Foot.  
I joined Holmes in an experiment, so intense.  
He bustled about like a child.  
I should have stopped him, but, he smiled,  
“I thought I knew my Watson.” I lost all sense.

Swirling smoke and musky fumes  
Quickly filled the entire room.  
Never told a living soul of what I saw.  
A horror filled my mind,  
Of a vaguely wicked kind,  
In a black-cloud of menace, my senses were appalled.  
I saw an open door,  
It froze me to my core.  
A silhouette, a dweller upon the threshold.  
I bade him to come in  
Though fear crawled on my skin.  
He threw back his head with a laugh that blasted my soul.

He called me a fake and a fool  
An evil one, The Devil’s Tool  
Afraid to live my life as it was ordained.  
My vision went all red,  
Clouds of blood circled my head,  
My mind seized in horror and unspeakable pain.  
I knew who the creature could be,  
My heart skipped a beat, it was me!  
Dwelling on the threshold afraid to make a step.  
I knew what I must do  
Cross the threshold and go through,  
Passed the shadows of fear and bitter regrets.

Resolved, I conquered my fear.  
Saw the face of the one I hold dear  
Contorted in horror, but, innocent as a dove.  
I pushed him to the floor  
Pulled him out the door.  
I would face anything for the man I love.  
We breathed the cool fresh air.  
We lay on the grass and stared,  
Looked at each other, made sure each was alright.  
We laughed till our sides ached,  
We admitted our foolish mistake.  
I walked through the threshold, bravely, into the light.

The Baron's son had used Devil's Foot powder, an hallucinogen that causes the victim who inhales the fumes to go mad with fright. He used it to kill his siblings. And almost succeeded in killing John and Sherlock. John had pulled Sherlock from the smoky poisoned filled room, just in time. Sherlock was fine, but the exertion of getting Sherlock to safety had caused John to take deep lungfuls of the heinous vapors. It left him with constant headaches, aversion to light, and a dread of sleeping. For on the edges of his mind were forever dwelling Demons on the threshold. John closed his eyes and thought about the evening after their ordeal.

John and Sherlock were having dinner at the little Bohemian Inn that had become their temporary home. The motherly cook had taken a liking to them, and the wholesome stews, thick with warm creamy gravy, were something no tourist had ever before been allowed to savor. Sherlock had nearly finished when John had yet another coughing fit. Sherlock looked at John with concern, noticing his food was hardly touched.

"My dear Watson, are you sure you are alright? You have hardly eaten." Sherlock wiped his mouth with his napkin and signaled for tea. The cook made a delicious dark brew, served in glasses with a gold rim. Sherlock knew John had grown fond of it.

"My lungs are full of that vile smoke, it may take a while for it to clear. Don't concern yourself about me." said John stoically.

"My Watson, the only concerns I have in the world are about you. Your slightest discomfort gives me pain. You should know this." Sherlock reached across the table and gave John's hand a squeeze. John smiled as the waiter brought the tea. Sherlock did not let go of John's hand. John chuckled softly at this and reached for his glass. He tried to to take a sip, but was thrown into another coughing fit leaving him gasping for air.

"I... I... need air... excuse..." Sherlock stood and helped John outside. The evening was cool and the air fragrant and fresh. John was taking shallow breaths, he leaned heavily on Sherlock who had a firm grip on his arm.

"John try to relax, you are breathing too fast." John suddenly grew tense in Sherlock's arms.

"Sherlock! What is that? In...in the shadows.. no,no,no... Sherlock get down!" John pushed Sherlock roughly to the ground and drew his revolver from his coat. Sherlock looked around. There was nothing. Sherlock saw the terror in John's eyes, saw his frantic need to keep Sherlock on the ground and covered.

"John! Listen to me! There is nothing there! We are safe, I promise!" John was turning this way and that as though the shadowy enemy was hiding just beyond his peripheral vision. John was tossing his revolver dangerously from hand to hand.

Sherlock thought quickly and used another tactic. "John, we need to get to our room, we'll be safe there."

"No, they'll see you!" John cried. "I...I... must keep you safe. They will scare you, you'll be afraid!"

"I... am afraid, John. You need to give me your gun, so I won't be afraid. Then we'll go to our room, I won't be afraid there, I'll have the gun. Then I'll be safe." John stared at Sherlock with wide eyes.

"You're afraid, Sherlock? Oh, don't be afraid, I'm here, my love." John's tone had turned from panicked to eerily soothing. "Here my darling, you have the gun. I don't need it. I can keep you safe with my shield. You can't see it, but I can. I'll cover you with it, my love. You can't be hurt, alright? Shhh...don't be scared any more, your Watson is here." Sherlock grabbed the gun and pocketed it. John was patting Sherlock's arm and playing with the buttons of his coat. John's words were sending chills down Sherlock's spine.

"Yes, John, I know, I know, you'll always protect me. I want to go to sleep now, I'm very tired, John, I think we should sleep."

"Yes, alright, what ever you want, love." John melted into Sherlock's arms, nearly swooning.

As Sherlock helped John to their room, John slowly became himself again. Sherlock put him on the bed and began to undress him. John was unusually docile under Sherlock's care.

"Sherlock, what did I just do? Did I faint? I can't remember walking here." John sat up and rubbed his head.

"Does your head ache, John?" John nodded. "Why don't I go fetch the tea from dinner, and some dessert?" Sherlock asked.

John gripped his arm. "Tell me what I did!" John demanded.

Sherlock reached over and caressed John's face, John closed his eyes and leaned into Sherlock's touch.

"Well, I suppose you hallucinated. You thought I was in danger, pushed me down, and waved your gun around a bit. It was over quickly." Sherlock tried to make light of the episode.

John's eyes grew wide. "Did I hurt you?" John reached out for Sherlock.

"No, you did what you always do. You protected me." Sherlock smiled and gave John a kiss.

"Let me fetch the tea, it won't take a moment, my Watson." Sherlock stood and placed another soft kiss on John's aching head. John just nodded.

That night Sherlock made sweet tender love to John, temporarily taking away all thoughts of dread and fear. Afterwards John held Sherlock as he slumbered peacefully in his arms. John stroked his dark curls, and relished the warmth of his body. John could not find rest. His mind was teeming with shadow figures and dark thoughts. At false dawn he made his decision. In his present state he would be more of a danger to Sherlock than a help. John silently rose and packed. He left Sherlock a long, loving note and bade him to be well and safe. He left Sherlock sleeping, as the sun rose over the Bohemian hills. 

.oOOo.

Oscar stopped at the telegram office on the way home. He knew Arthur would be cross when he found out. Oscar smiled fondly at the thought of Arthur stuttering with anger at him. Arthur, was quick to anger and just as quick to forgive. A master at unconditional love and tolerance. And his dearest friend.

"Arthur told me the way to get a telegram to Sherlock in case of an emergency. I remember he said to send it to M. Vernet care of the Securite' Nationale, and Sherlock will get it through his cousin. M. Vernet is Sherlock's cover. I adore this cloak and dagger intrigue." Oscar thought. "I must be very clever. Perhaps something from Keats. Sherlock and I discuss Keats often." Oscar bit his lip, and recited poems in his head. "Yes, that might work. Holmes favorite poem and mine combined." He wrote a message on a form, and handed it to the clerk.

"O Poesy! The Knight at arms can no longer hold his pen." (signed) O.

"Clever me." Oscar chuckled, "That should bring him home whether it's convenient or not!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who have stuck with me from the beginning! I'm hoping to reach 1895 readers by the end! It's so hard to write a John without a Sherlock. Like a Starsky without a Hutch. Sorry, got the Starsky and Hutch DVDs and had a marathon watch. I had to be real careful not to write in a red Torino into my story. Did you know Hutch calls Starsky Sherlock sometimes and they are introduced as Holmes and Watson twice? Crossover?
> 
> Note: The two Keats poems are "Sleep and Poetry" my favorite. And " La Belle Dame Sans Merci " which Sherlock quotes in "The Adventure of the Three Gables." 
> 
> Love to all!


	30. An Eternal Vow of Love

187 North Gower Street, London, England, 2014.

The Cabbie pulled up to 187 North Gower, John and Sherlock got out. John gave the Cabbie a big tip and Sherlock a big smile, then joined him on the limestone front steps. John still had traces of a headache, but he was happier than he had been in years. Sherlock was his again. 

Sherlock noticed John's smile and the lack of complaining about always paying the Cabbie. Sherlock looked absently at the blue London sky. He breathed in the cold London air. It seemed cleaner, brighter, "Must be an after effect of John Watson being happy." he thought and smiled himself.

"I never thought Mrs. Hudson would let us go! I do feel bad she made a full English breakfast for me and all I could handle was the coffee." John laughed softly.

"Yes, well, she'll do anything for you. Forgiveness is a given. I did have a suspicion that she was having a laugh, she knew we were hungover from your "pub crawl", said Sherlock. He turned up his collar and shivered a bit. Sherlock noticed John was not searching for a key.

"I had to get out of there. She was telling me about her sex life." said John.

"Good, God, man! Do not tell me what she said. Ever! Where's the key, John? I'm cold!" said Sherlock.

John simply faced the door and said, "Rand? It's the Doctor. Open the front door. Oh, and Sherlock is with me." he added.

The door immediately opened, Sherlock and John stepped into the spacious front hall. John closed the door behind him.

"Hello, Doctor! Always a pleasure! Have you recuperated from your hangover? You will be pleased to know that all charges have been dropped, it's as if you and Mr. Holmes never spent a night in jail." Rand sounded like a child seeking praise from a parent.

"Rand did you tamper with our records? Or was it Master Mycroft?"

Sherlock's eyes went wide. "Rand calls him Master?" he asked.

John whispered, "Yes, and he calls me Doctor." Sherlock snorted.

John said in a calm voice. "Rand, please answer my question."

"I did. Are you pleased?" Rand asked.

John sighed and gave Sherlock a glance, a smirk was on his face . He was enjoying this.

John leaned into Sherlock and whispered, "It's hard being a moral compass to an evolving AI. He's like a big puppy. A scary, emotionally unstable puppy, who could destroy the world." Sherlock smirked even more.

"Pray, continue, Doctor." Sherlock began to explore the house.

"I'm very pleased, Rand, that you kept track of my whereabouts, made sure I was safe and watched my back. You must have been worried when you couldn't contact me on my phone." said John. 

"Yes, Doctor, dear." Another snort was heard from Sherlock at the endearment. John ignored him. "I searched A&E admittance records, the checked the morgue. And then police reports. I found you and Mr. Holmes listed as drunk and disorderly, incarcerated at New Scotland Yard's drunk tank. I hope you had a pleasant time at your Bachelor Party. Although I don't understand how being arrested would be considered fun. So I erased the records as a "before your wedding, male gender only, drink alcoholic beverages till you get in some sort of trouble" gift for you. Do I have the concept and goals of such a night correct, Doctor?" inquired Rand.

Sherlock could now be heard laughing loudly in the kitchen. The sound made John's heart skip with joy. Sherlock's laugh was infectious and it was all John could do to keep himself composed. Rand deserved an honest answer.

"Thank you, Rand. It was a thoughtful gift. I think you have the concept right. I'm sorry I caused you to "worry", well, I guess it's more like you are unable to protect and serve me if you lose contact, right?"

"Yes, that is how I "worry". I must know where those I protect are located at all times. And if I lose contact I must search until I find them." Rand stated. "And..." Rand hesitated. "I am always on yellow alert when you are with Mister Sherlock Holmes."

John was a bit shocked at that statement. "Yellow alert? Why?"

"Murray told me once that Sherlock Holmes broke your heart. I don't understand the concept, but I always put myself on alert when he is near you. I do not want you to die of a broken heart, I have read it is painful and fatal, Doctor, dear. And no cure is listed." said Rand.

Sherlock had wandered back to the front hall, and stood before John gently touching his cheek. Sherlock looked into John's expressive eyes and saw the old wounds. The good heart that Sherlock had broken. The heart Sherlock desperately wanted to heal. 

"Love heals all wounds, John." Sherlock whispered. He leaned in and kissed his John. John embraced Sherlock and buried his face in his warm coat, breathing in the smokey spice aroma that was Sherlock. 

"John, can you turn Rand off?" Sherlock kissed John's ear as he nuzzled in Sherlock's coat. "I'd like to be alone with you. Completely alone." Sherlock's deep voice vibrated through John's body. 

John cleared his throat."Umm, Rand, would you mind going to non- interactive mode for a while? I'll call you when I need you. Oh, and thank you again for your gift." 

"Certainly, Doctor, dear." Rand went on stand-by. 

"Is he off?" asked Sherlock. 

"Yes, he still is running basic functions and security. But he's been programmed not to listen in when asked by someone with a key. He'd be back on in a nanosecond if I even whispered his name."

"I'm glad he keeps you safe, John, but I don't think he likes me." Sherlock was still holding John and speaking softly into his ear. John was enjoying the unhurried closeness. He felt like he was dreaming and didn't want to wake up.

"I'll make you a key-holder. He'll come around. Right now he views you as a potential threat to me. And who knows what Mycroft has told him about you." said John.

"Master Mycroft." Sherlock corrected.

John and Sherlock laughed together and Sherlock began to take off his coat and scarf. 

"Show me around, John!" Sherlock took John's hand and pulled him along.

.oOOo.

John showed Sherlock the beautiful home and even though it wasn't 221B, they both found it had a kind of warmth that made them feel safe and at ease. Murray had left a will. And he left everything to Mycroft, with a few stipulations. The house was always to be available to John Watson as a residence or a safe house. John Watson and Ed Davis were to be co-guardians of Rand, John being responsible for his moral education and Ed being responsible for his maintenance and programming changes. (Davis and Murray had installed Rand, and Davis had worked with him for years.) Murray left the Fish & Chips shop to Billy Wiggins, and asked that Billy would continue to hire local kids.

When John got to the basement he made Sherlock a "key", just as Murray had done for John, years ago. Even though Rand was against it at first, John had convinced Rand it was for the best. Rand, showing a bit of what appeared to be jealousy, refused to call Sherlock anything but Mister Holmes.

John and Sherlock had settled into the Victorian sitting room after a huge dinner of Antipasto Salad, Pizza, Pasta and Chianti from a better than average Italian restaurant down the street. The room was softly lit by candles on the piano. Sherlock picked up Mycroft's violin and played for John. And John, after two glasses of Chianti sat at the piano, played and attempted to sing an old Beatles tune for Sherlock, "In my life." John had asked Rand to download a "teach yourself piano" video and John learned to play a few simple songs for his own pleasure. And seeing the wonder and surprise in Sherlock's eyes was well worth the hours of practice. John's did a fair imitation of Paul with a bit of Ringo, here and there.

There are places I remember 

All my life though some have changed 

Some forever not for better 

Some have gone and some remain 

All these places have their moments 

With lovers and friends I still can recall 

Some are dead and some are living 

In my life I've loved them all 

But of all these friends and lovers 

There is no one compares with you 

And these memories lose their meaning 

When I think of love as something new 

Though I know I'll never lose affection 

For people and things that went before 

I know I'll often stop and think about them 

In my life I love you more 

Though I know I'll never lose affection 

For people and things that went before 

I know I'll often stop and think about them 

In my life I love you more In my life I love you more 

Sherlock clapped enthusiastically when John was finished. "Bravo, bravo! Wonderful, John. Will you ever stop surprising me?" Sherlock was glowing from the wine and song. His shirt's top buttons were undone, his jacket and shoes long ago discarded. John thought he never looked more beautiful.

"Thank you, I've always liked that song. It reminds me of you." John said, a little embarrassed by the praise and by what he knew he had to ask next.

"Sherlock, I was wondering if you would sleep with me tonight... I mean... share my bed...room...with me. Yeah, well, if you don't it's fine. It's all fine, yeah, all...what do you think?" John drained his wine glass and finally looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled and took John's empty wineglass out of his hand. Sherlock leaned across the piano and took John's hands in his.

"I think I've never loved you more than right now, and I would be a fool not to jump at the chance to bed you."

John let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Sherlock, we can take it as slow as you like, my love. I just want to be close to you. I just want to show you how much I love you."

Sherlock blew out all the candles save one. He took John's hand and led him by candlelight to the bedroom without saying another word.

.oOOo.

The Wedding Reception of John & Mary, 2014.

Sherlock exited the wedding reception, donned his coat with a flourish and shoved his hands in the pockets. He felt for the cigarette he had taken from a Bridesmaid's purse as she danced. The booming music blaring from the reception hall's speakers assaulted his ears. He preferred the bittersweet notes of his violin composition. He stopped on the sidewalk for a moment, closed his eyes allowing the cold breeze to cool his overheated face. John's face was instantly there. The expression when he told him Mary was pregnant, the little nod that told Sherlock, he understood the game had gone up a level, that yes, he would be careful, and that he loved Sherlock more than ever.

"John." Sherlock sighed, "It would take me months to decipher everything contained in one glance from those stormy eyes."

Sherlock headed over to the parking lot where several of Mycroft's cars were parked. Mycroft's wedding present, car service for all the guests. With the added bonus of securing the area, and keeping Agent Watson and Sherlock protected. Sherlock walked up to the closest car as the driver side window smoothly opened.

"Hello, Sherlock. Leaving so soon? We just got back from our little side trip." Agent Davis had led the chase after Major Sholto's assassin. He never had a chance.

"Why aren't you inside Davis? John especially wanted you to enjoy yourself. Do you have a light?" As Davis produced a lighter, Sherlock took a long leisurely inhale, ecstasy written on his face.

"I think the world of Watson. I don't like to see him under so much stress. This assignment is hard on him, and he's never out of danger. I don't like undercover work. Messes with your mind." Davis briefly touched Sherlock's forehead with his finger. Sherlock frowned and took a deep puff.

Davis continued his thought. "If it was really his wedding, I'd dance till dawn and toast him and his partner's health and happiness many, many, times." He gave Sherlock a knowing wink. Sherlock smiled and blew smoke away from the open window. "But I want no part of this farce. I'll stay right here, sober and watching his back as usual." Davis looked in his mirror. "Get in Sherlock, here he comes now." Sherlock stamped out his cigarette and got in the back of the limo. He stretched out his long legs. The door opened a moment later. John got in, red faced and slightly out of breath.

John reached over and pulled Sherlock into a hug, kissed his mouth, and hugged him again, and continued to cover him with kisses as he talked.

"Molly told me you left. Are you alright? Why did you leave? The baby? Oh, love, you know it's not mine... sick, twisted, bitch... bringing an innocent child into this... what's she up to now! Sherlock... you know I can't..."

"Have children, I know John. Calm down. I'm fine. Just needed a break, I thought you'd need one too, love. I knew you'd follow me." Sherlock gently rubbed John's arms. Despite the situation, Sherlock was enjoying the look and feel of his partner's wedding attire. John looked fantastic. Sherlock could barely keep his eyes off him all evening.

"Sherlock, your speech, your violin, the way you look tonight. Oh, God I wish this was our wedding!" John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock looked sideways at John, his deep baritone voice reverberating in enclosed space. "Is that a proposal, Sir?

John stilled."Yes, Sherlock. Yes, when all this is over, will you marry me?"

Sherlock made a small gasp. His eyes went wide. They had talked about love, commitment and marriage before. But somehow this moment was different. John used his deadly serious voice. The one Sherlock must obey. John's eyes were deep pools of love and sincerity. Sherlock could see the flowers, cake and champagne. Hear their friends laughing and clapping with joy at the Wedding of John & Sherlock. This was a vow he desperately wanted to make. A vow of eternal love for John.

Sherlock suddenly saw in his mind's eye another John & Sherlock, silently exchanging rings and vows at a loved one's wedding. At the back of a church, alone and in secret. Sherlock wanted to shout to the stars how he felt. Sign official papers, make elaborate, nonsensical, wedding plans and claim John in the old ridiculous and classic manor in front of all the world.

"Yes, John." was all Sherlock said.

John smiled and reached over for a long drawn out sensuous kiss to seal their agreement.

"Sherlock?" said John softly.

"Ummm." replied Sherlock.

"I love you." said John.

"I concur." Sherlock smiled.

John kissed him again.

"Sherlock?" said John.

"Um humm?" 

"Come back in. Stay with me?"

Sherlock nodded agreement, his eyes still closed savoring the moment.

"Thank you," John sighed.

"Sherlock?" John said.

Sherlock opened his eyes. "Yes."

"Stop smoking." said John.

"Yes, Dear." said Sherlock as he pulled John in for one last smokey kiss.

.oOOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Watson and a Very Happy Sherlock to all my faithful readers! Make a New Year wish on me, and here's hoping it comes true.
> 
> And as Victorian John Watson said, "Wishing you the compliments of the season."


	31. The Devil and the Blue Sky

Michel Vernet's Horse Farm, Montpelier, Southern France, 1893.

Sherlock looked again at Oscar's telegram, the pain in his heart outweighing the pain of the stab wound in his side. 

"Hold on, my Watson. I'll be home soon." he let the gentle breeze take his words and hoped John could hear them somehow.

Sherlock was sitting on a garden bench overlooking his cousin Michel's horse farm. In his cousin's soft cotton clothes, and canvas peasant boots, Sherlock looked like Michel's twin. A fact that was keeping him safe while he recuperated. The floppy straw hat hid his face from the bright sun of Provence, and hid his pained expression from the world.

Michel had come to the aide of Sherlock once again after John had left him. Sherlock had found out that the Baron's murderous son was an orphan, adopted as an infant by the Baron at the request of "The Guardian Society". The Baron had told Sherlock all about it, the Baron was only guilty of trusting and covering up for a mentally deranged boy who he loved as his own. But when his adopted son killed his other children with the Devil's Foot, the Baron was done. He was done with being the wealthy fool of an evil society. He wanted Sherlock's help.

Sherlock found out that an agent of the Guardian Society had been using the Baron's son to get to the Baron's Fortune. Posing as his friend, the agent had fed the orphan boy's dementia, telling him over and over that murdering his family was the only way to rid himself of the demons in his soul.

The agent was about to finish off the Baron himself and claim the Baron's fortune for the Society. The Baron had foolishly made a will at the request of his adopted son stating he wished to leave his what was left of his fortune, after his children had divided it among themselves to "The Guardian Society". The Baron thought the amount would be a generous, but reasonable amount to leave to a charity, so he agreed to his son's request. The Baron never thought for a second that he was making a deal with a devil, and murdering his own children.

Sherlock knew The Baron was in grave danger. The Baron didn't know who the Agent was, but Sherlock deduced it was one of the household, most likely one of two new guards the Baron had recently acquired.

Sherlock told the Baron to station both guards outside his door and pretend he was ill, overcome with sorrow. It was close to the truth. Sherlock lurked in the shadows of the Baron's bedchamber. They heard the two guards struggle. Sherlock saw the door slowly open, one guard was unconscious in the hall. The other guard was coming towards the baron with a hunting knife. 

"NOW!" Sherlock shouted.

The Baron jumped out of bed, while Sherlock tried to disarm the Guard. Sherlock wanted to subdue him and get some answers from him. The Guard waved his knife and stabbed Sherlock in the left side. The knife hit a rib and Sherlock cried out. The enraged Baron took his ceremonial sword, which was hidden in his bedclothes, and pierced the Guard through the heart.

The Baron knelt beside Sherlock. "My brave boy, you are hurt! I shall call for aide." The Baron bellowed for help, shouts and the sound of running boots were heard instantly.

The Baron took Sherlock in his arms to make him comfortable. Sherlock smiled at the old man who had tears in his eyes, knowing he was seeing Sherlock as one of his own lost sons.

"I shall never forget what you have done for me, Sherlock Holmes. I am forever in your debt. Anything you want or need you will receive." said the Baron sincerely.

"I want to go home, Baron." Sherlock's vision was beginning to go black around the edges. He suddenly felt had to make The Baron understand, it was so important. "I want my Watson. I need him." Sherlock struggled for cohesive thought. "Contact my cousin, Michel Vernet. The Innkeeper, Madam Starinsky. Her son, Hotch, knows how to reach him. Baron, please, I want to go home to John." Sherlock succumbed to the pain and fatigue and blacked out.

.oOOo.

Michel rode up on a beautiful horse, Sherlock's favorite because it had a mane the color of John's hair and eyes that saw into his soul, just like John.

"Sherlock! How are you feeling today, my brother?" Madam Starinsky had contacted Michel to come and fetch Sherlock because The Baron was afraid he would try to leave for England while he was still too ill to travel. The Baron had taken the utmost care of Sherlock and he was recovering nicely. 

Sherlock only looked up as far at Michel's horse's eyes and said "I want to go home."

Michel ignored him. He knew Sherlock was not ready, and had told Sherlock he would not let him go until he was fully healed. Sherlock had sulked, but admitted defeat.

Have you figured out Madam Starinsky's note yet? Michel asked.

When Michel had stopped at Madam Starinsky's Bohemian Inn to get Sherlock's things. She seemed desperate to convey something to him. Her English was horrible and her French worse. Michel had finally taken a paper and motioned for her to write a note to Sherlock. Instead she had drawn a many petaled flower and a horned devil with a pitchfork. She wrote the Bohemian words Blue Sky and made the motion of drinking, while saying cafe', cafe'. Michel, perplexed, thanked her and took the note. "Sherlock pourrait comprendre." he thought.

Sherlock sighed and took the battered picture out of his pocket and looked at it again. He was so weary and so worried about John, that he couldn't think properly. He knew from Oscar's telegram that John had become worse. Sherlock closed his eyes and saw the Baron's sons who had also been poisoned. They had gone mad and died a few hours after their sister."John has survived this long, but was that his fate also?" Sherlock shivered in the warm sun.

Michel dismounted, his horse came closer and nuzzled Sherlock. Sherlock reached into his pocket for the bits of carrot he kept there for his new friend. Michel sat on the garden bench and put an arm around Sherlock.

"I have all of France, searching for a cure, I have Botany students at Universite' Montpelier going through the old herbals, our fellow Agents are speaking to all known dealers in herbs. Something will turn up, Sherlock. You will soon be well and I will send you home to him. Just your presence will cure him, I am sure." Michel spoke to Sherlock like he was talking to a little brother who was afraid of the Devil.

Sherlock embraced Michel and let him chase the demons out of his brain. He looked over Michel's shoulder at the Lavender fields in the distance. The lavender flowers and the sky were the same elusive blue color."So many shades of blue, like John's eyes." he thought.

Sherlock suddenly gasped, "Oh!" Sherlock stood up and started to pace, staring at Madam Starinsky's drawing in his hand. Michel's horse backed up and gave a little snort, half-chewed carrot pieces landing on Michel.

"Cheval coquine!" Michel laughed, standing up to brush off his coat. "Sherlock! Qu'Est-ce que c'est! What is it?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Michel, it's a horse." Sherlock said absently.

"Sherlock!" Michel grabbed Sherlock's arms to get his attention. Sherlock looked up at Michel's amused smile.

"This drawing! Madam Starinsky was a marvelous cook. She was a master of herbal cookery. John would try to guess what she put in each dish. They couldn't understand each other, so John would doodle the herbs on bits of paper for her. You know, draw pictures of thyme and sage... John knew them all. Madam and her son were quite taken with John. She must of understood what happened to him. But he left without saying goodbye to her." Sherlock smiled for the first time in weeks.

"You mean the drawing..." started Michel.

"...is a drawing of the cure!" finished Sherlock. "Arthur! Arthur will know what this is! Michel, brother, I must..." Sherlock started.

"...go home." Michel finished. "Alright, I'll make arrangements, and go with you as far as the Fleche D'or to England. I'll see if I can have an Agent accompany you the rest of the way." Michel sighed.

"No need for that, Michel. I shall don a disguise. I'll be safe. Nothing could come between me and my Watson."

.oOOo.

Mary sat in her bedroom reading and re-reading the letter she had received from "The Guardian Society". It began:

Dear Abigail Ainsworth,

And ended:

Colonel James Moriarty.

Mary stared into the mirror. She had not seen or heard the name Abigail in many years. Not since it fell like a benediction from the lips of her beloved girlhood friend as she died in her arms. She must tell her present friends the truth. She would die happy knowing she had helped saved dear John Watson. She would not let a sadistic demon like Moriarty have his way with him. Not when she had come so far, not when she had such love in her life, not when she was about to die. "I wish Sherlock was here." she said softly

She heard laughter from downstairs. Oscar, Cathy, Davey and Dora had just returned from a play Oscar had helped produce for a Charity fundraiser. Dora was reciting a line from the play in a very dramatic voice, Davey deepened his voice to answer, and Oscar called out. "I'll save you!" There were peels of laughter again, Arthur joining in this time. I was good to hear laughter in the house again. No one felt much like laughing since John had disappeared. Her mind went over the events once again.

.oOOo.

Arthur had confided in her two months ago that John was in a severe decline. Brain Fever, he called it. Headaches, depression, fatigue and light sensitivity were getting worse. He hardly spoke. He hardly ate or slept. And he had been having hallucinations at night. The worse being when he ran into the street, gun in hand. Screaming for Sherlock. 

Arthur was beside himself with worry. He knew the cause was the Devil's Foot fumes John had inhaled and had tried every thing he could think of to cure him. When John was very bad, Arthur would sedate him. John's cries of fear when Arthur had to hold him down broke Arthur's heart. He and Oscar poured over old tombs, searching for obscure herbal cures.

Wiggins had asked for his beat to include the Watson residence. He would walk by twice, sometimes three times a night, whistling a tune, so John and the others would know he was about. Wiggins was the only one John listened to when he was in one of his states. It was Wiggins who took John's gun away from him and held him as he sobbed Sherlock's name. It was Wiggins who was almost run down the night John disappeared.

The fog was very thick that night. Like slow moving fingers of mist, it twisted into corners, then reached out trying to dim the gaslights on the street.

Cathy was spending the night with Mary. John was restless. He paced his darkened room, muttering and talking to the shadows in his brain. "My shield, my shield.!" He called out. "I must put Sherlock under my shield." John stopped as if listening to a conversation. "They won't see us Sherlock. We'll be safe from them. We'll be together always, my love. We won't live in fear anymore." John stepped over to his dresser and opened an ancient box that Sherlock had given him. A souvenir from one of his Adventures. It had a hidden compartment in it. John took out a curved dagger with a jewel encrusted hilt. It flashed silver in the subdued light from the open window.

John put on his cloak and hid the knife inside. "Tonight, Sherlock. He says he will take me to you tonight at midnight." John chuckled at the Sherlock talking to him in his mind. "No, he's not like his brother, my dear. Colonel Moriarty is going to help me kill the demons." John smiled and climbed out the window, disappearing into the swirling yellow fog.

 

Wiggins was walking his beat on his way to the Watson's. He tried to whistle a merry tune as was his custom, but the fog crept down his throat and made him cough instead. "I detest this fog," he thought. "Makes my hair stand on end. Hell, it makes me scared senseless." Wiggins admitted.

Wiggins thought he saw a dark shape moving up ahead. Wiggins froze, straining to see through the fog, clutching the handle of his Revolver. Suddenly the shape materialized into a familiar form.

"Doc Watson! Doctor! Stop!" Wiggins heard the clip-clop of a Hansom Cab coming up the street. It stopped and Wiggins could barely make out a figure stepping up into the Cab.

Wiggins blew his whistle and shouted, "STOP!" He jumped in front of the cab, both arms waving at the skittish horse. He blew his whistle again, but the driver never pulled back the reins. The frightened horse reared and kicked Wiggins, throwing him to the curb, his arm broken. Wiggins saw the anguished face of Doctor Watson looking down at him, a ghostly hand on Watson's shoulder held him back. The cab melted into the fog. The last thing Wiggins heard was the answering whistles, shouts and running footsteps of his fellow officers.

.oOOo.

Wiggins sat at the mahogany table at 221b. He was looking over his notes on "The John Watson Case" yet again, absently rubbing his healing arm in its linen sling. Lestrade had taken him off his beat and given him John's disappearance to work on exclusively. It had been nearly a month, and he was no closer to finding John. Wiggins sighed, glancing around the room. 

Mrs. Hudson hadn't cleared away the remains of dinner yet. The china and silver sparkled in the gaslight. Wiggins had moved into Sherlock and John's rooms after Sherlock left. Mrs. Hudson had offered to box things up to make it more his place, but Wiggins had left everything as it was. Sherlock's beakers and John's notebooks meant home to Wiggins. Wiggin's eyes settled on an old cushion on the hearth. "Poor old Major." he thought with a sad smile. "I sure could use you now, boy, I know you'd find the Doc." Major had died peacefully in his sleep a few years back. "Like a good dog should." Wiggins said for the benefit of any listening spirits. The Major had had a nice romp in the park with John, Wiggins and "The Blessings" that day. When Wiggins took him home, he looked at the seventeen steps sadly. Wiggins carried him up the stairs and set him down on his cushion by the fire. He circled three times, sighed contentedly and went to sleep.

Wiggins heard a commotion downstairs. He heard Mrs. Hudson drop a heavy pan on the floor. Heard her call out, and heard her crying. Wiggins grabbed his revolver and raced down the stairs. A tall gray haired man with a wide brimmed hat was holding Mrs. Hudson as she cried in his arms.

"Police!" Wiggins yelled. "Step away from her and put your hands where I can see them, or I swear I'll knock that hat off your head the hard way, Man!"

"Oh, Wiggins, it's alright, it's..." Mrs. Hudson held up a hand. The man raised his hands and backed away slowly. 

"Mrs. H.! You go in the kitchen and wait for me, dear-heart. Are you hurt?... Did this Bast... man... hurt you?" Wiggins voice was dripping with concern. But his features were cold as steel, the hand holding the gun rock steady. One small move and this man was dead.

"I'm fine. No, Wiggins... you don't..." Mrs. Hudson sounded hysterical.

"Do as he says." The tall man said in a French accent. Mrs Hudson obeyed him immediately. 

Wiggins focused on the tall man, he thought about killing him with a bullet in the back for daring to touch Mrs. H. But Lestrade, Holmes and Watson had trained him too well.

"You're lucky I had a good upbringin'. Turn around slowly." said Wiggins.

The man turned and Wiggins took him in as he was trained to do. "French, but not his native tongue. Frock coat and turned collar. Very out of date. Old Clergyman then. Old? Not enough wrinkles. Shoes are wrong, English. Hair wrong too, Dyed? No wig. Disguise?" Wiggins mind rattled off information. He looked the man in the eyes. "Eyes, deep blue, intelligent, warm, amused." he thought, and then he saw.

"My God! Mr. Holmes!" Wiggins lowered his gun. "Oh, Mr. Holmes, you're home! Thank God! Thank God!" Holmes started to chuckle, then raised his arms for an embrace.

Wiggins held on to his mentor, tears forming in his eyes. "There, there, my dear boy. I'm sorry I upset you." Sherlock pushed him gently away to get a good look at him. "Wiggins, an Officer of the Law! And a damn good one too! You saw right through my disguise. You must tell me what gave me away." Sherlock said softly.

Wiggins gave a little cough. "Eyes, Sir. Can't disguise a man's eyes. Window to the soul and all. Oh, and your coat, hair, shoes, face, and accent." Sherlock's eyebrows went up to the sky.

"Well, Officer Wiggins, I see I left behind a boy and came back to find a fine man in his place. I'm so very proud of you, son." Sherlock's eyes were full of love. Wiggins had to look away, his heart full to overflowing. His heart breaking over what he must tell this wonderful man about John.

"I...I must check on Mrs. H." said Wiggins.

"Allow me, Sir! Mrs. Hud-Soooon!" He bellowed. "Some tea is in order I think!" Wiggins chuckled.

Mrs. Hudson popped out the door tea tray in hand. 

"You don't think I'd let my poor, brave, injured, Wiggins miss his Tea because you happen to turn up like a bad penny. Do You?" Sherlock took the tray and gave Mrs. Hudson a kiss on the forehead. "I missed you, and your scones." said Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled and climbed the steps to 221b. Mrs. Hudson and Wiggins exchanged knowing glances.

.oOOo.

John was being held in an Opium den on the east end of London. He was locked in a dark room with a couch, table and little else. After Moriarty had taken him, he had been back often for little chats. As John liked to think of them. Moriarty had lied to him. Sherlock was still on the continent. Hopefully safe on Michel's beautiful farm. 

Moriarty had already made his first big mistake. The heady smoke filled den had helped John's battered mind. It was quiet and dark and the Opium they made him smoke had the odd effect of calming his mind enough so he could think clearly for hours at a time. It wasn't a cure, John knew, just a temporary help. But he knew Moriarty's plans and prayed Wiggins would find him before Moriarty try to use John for what he had in mind.

John was making plans of his own. He was too weak to get very far if he ever managed to break down the locked door of the tiny room. His only hope was to somehow get a message to Wiggins. Using the resin from the opium pipe and a sliver of wood from the dirty floor, he managed to write a note. John always had a notebook in his jacket. "I wish Moriarty hadn't taken my knife." He thought bitterly.

Moriarty had given John's care over to a young boy from Afghanistan. John knew where he was from because he had been trying to earn his trust. John had been to this boy's village. It was a lovely spot with green, fruit laden gardens and a misty waterfall. In the midst of war, it had looked like a sweet dream. The boy had soulful brown eyes and John had placed his hope in them.

Moriarty had called the boy San. He looked to be about 12 years old. He had been brought to England as servant by an Admiral. When they arrived in London the Admiral had abandoned him and San took to the streets like so many other boys. John couldn't make out if San was his real name or just some arrogant Englishman's attempt to say his name. San was used to rough treatment. John had treated him with respect and kindness. Today San had brought him his dinner and smiled at John warmly. "I'm almost there." thought John. He reached over and ruffled San's hair.

"San, if I get out of here alive," John looked up from the food he was pushing around on its metal plate. "You could come and work for me and my partner, Sherlock Holmes. We've already raised one boy from the streets. Took him in when he was about your age. We're very proud of him, he became a Policeman. His name is Wiggins." John hoped he wasn't as transparent as he felt. 

San was sitting cross legged on the floor. His folded hands spoke of a pride and dignity that overrode his rag tag appearance.

"I would like that, John." He said softly. "But if I try to help you escape, I fear both of us will be dead before we make it to the street. They do not beat you, John. Most men enjoy the opium. They do not wish to leave. The opium helps your demons, I can see that in your eyes."

John could see he underestimated the boy. He reminded him of a young Sherlock. John took his chance.

"I have a home, San. A wife, dear friends, and three orphans I've helped raised. I love my unusual family more than anything. I miss my partner, my life. I'm a Doctor and a Detective. I...I'm sick, San, but I'll never work for Moriarty. He will have to kill me. You could help me, San, and I could help you. Make you part of my family." John felt so tired he leaned back on the couch, keeping San under his pleading gaze.

"Do you have a plan?" San met John's gaze.

"I've written a note." John pulled it out of the small watch pocket of his vest. "All you have to do is give it to any policeman. Or if you'd rather, my dear friend, Doctor Arthur Conan Doyle. I could give you other people you could leave it with. Wiggins lives at 221b Baker Street, you could leave it with Mrs. Hudson. None of my friends would hurt you, San. I added to the note that they should not allow you to return and keep you safe till I come for you."

"Many people love you, John. I have heard of this Sherlock Holmes. You speak as if he was alive. Did you not remember he is dead?" San looked sympathetic. Obviously John had ranted about Sherlock when he first arrived.

John felt a bit panicky. San could easily deny him if he thought he was out of his mind. John took a deep breath.

"My partner, Sherlock Holmes is very much alive." said John, waiting for a reaction.

"He killed Moriarty's brother."said San.

"Actually, I did. It was an accident. I fought Moriarty on the edge of a waterfall. He fell into the abyss. He was trying to murder Sherlock. I had to save Sherlock's life, I love him." John decided the truth was the only thing this boy would honor.

San looked up with wonder. "You killed Moriarty's brother?" John nodded. "Sherlock Holmes is alive?" John nodded again.

They both heard voices and footsteps approaching. San stood, and hastily cleared John's uneaten dinner onto a tray. 

"Would Sherlock Holmes fight Colonel Moriarty to save your life?" San whispered.

"Yes, without a doubt." said John.

"Give me the note." said San.

The door opened and Moriarty walked in. "John!" he said cheerily. "Time for a talk. How about a little smoke?" Moriarty filled the pipe with opium, this time laced with a trace of Devil's Foot. Moriarty turned to San. "Make sure he smokes the whole bowl, boy, or you won't be able to sit for a week. I'll be back, John." San looked at the matches in his hand, his features did not betray the struggle within.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I can't believe I've been working on this story for 6 months! Kudos, comments and hits keep me going. 6 chapters to go! The best and most exciting bits are yet to come, my dear readers.
> 
> I love you all! May your new year be the best year of your life, so far, with lots of love and luck and Sherlock in it!


	32. Having A Human Experience

The Operating Theater, London, England, 2014

Sherlock had been shot. Shot by Mary. The Doctors were about to make the call. The time of death. Sherlock was drifting in and out of his mind palace. Moriarty said John was in danger. Moriarty was right. Sherlock struggled up the staircase. The door of 221B was in front of him. He had to open it, get to John. He reached for the knocker. Knocked three times. The door opened.

"Oh, dear boy, it is you! Pray, come in." The Victorian John Watson opened the door wide, embracing Sherlock, pulling him gently in, and calling pleasantly, "Holmes, my dear, we have a visitor! It is Sherlock!"

Things solidified around Sherlock. He could feel the banister under his hand. He could smell pipe smoke coming from upstairs. He held tightly to the strong arm of Doctor Watson. Sherlock felt safe, and loved. The door to 221b opened.

"Sherlock, my dear fellow! What a pleasure to finally meet you!"

Watson ushered Sherlock to a chair by the fire. Watson stood looking at Sherlock like a proud parent. Holmes was analyzing him while puffing at his pipe.

"Sherlock, it seems you are dead! For the moment anyway." Holmes smiled at Watson. Watson put an reassuring arm on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Sherlock? You can talk to us. You have questions do you not?" said Watson kindly.

Sherlock was dazed. But the kind Doctor said he could talk. He wanted to do what the Doctor asked, so gently, so like his own John.

"John!" Sherlock stood and started to pace."I can't stay here. John is in danger. I must get back! Send me back!" Sherlock shouted.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes!" Victorian Holmes shouted back. "Sit down and stop being a sentimental fool!"

Sherlock sat. He glared at Holmes. Then they both started to laugh in unison.

"You are me!" Sherlock said smiling.

"Oh, starting to get it now, are we. Took you long enough!" Holmes patted him lightly on the head.

"What is this place?" Sherlock looked around he spotted the Victorian sideboard with mirrors that graced Mycroft's sitting room. Only it looked brand new.

"Well, we are not sure what to call it. But we are summoned here by you and John, it seems, when you are in dire straits. Which is quite often." said Watson.

"You see," said Holmes, "My Watson's poetry holds great power. All creative writing does. A poet puts a piece of his spirit into each poem. The reader feels the connection of his own spirit to the spirit of the poet. It is a power that transcends time."

Sherlock looked at Doctor Watson. "Do you share John's spirit?" asked Sherlock.

"I am John's spirit." said Watson.

"And I am yours." said Holmes. 

Holmes continued. "Watson and I usually dwell in what you would call "Heaven". Our spirits are connected by a strong force. Love. The most powerful force in the all of existence. Your spirit dwells in Heaven and out of love you go to the earth plain and live a life. The earth plain is a place of education. A place where a spirit is confined so that it can learn to be liberated. Liberated by love. Spirits can return to the earth plain many times and learn new things each time. The trials and tribulations of life are over in a blink. And you return. eager to do it again. Watson and I decided to try our hands at life again. Watson in your John. And I in you. We are the same, but our experiences are different. We are all spirits having a human experience."

"But why can we talk to you? Shouldn't the universe implode or something?" Sherlock smirked.

"It is quite unusual. Unique even. We are not sure how it happened. But we know why." said Holmes.

Holmes glanced at Watson. They both said together:

"Moriarty."

"Evil is balanced by good, Sherlock. One would not know what was evil if one did not know good. The knowledge of good and the knowledge of evil make the earth plain what it is. The brothers Moriarty upset that balance. There was never meant to be two." said Watson.

"Two? Two of course! Moriarty didn't die on the roof of St. Bart's. His brother did." Sherlock looked at Holmes. "Tell me what I need to know. How do I save John. How do I defeat Moriarty?" Sherlock pleaded.

"Sherlock," Watson said gently. "Close your eyes and look at your John."

Sherlock obeyed. "John is sitting in the waiting room of the Hospital. His head is down. His eyes are closed. He's talking in a whisper. Praying? No, I hear him. He's talking to me." Sherlock listened.

"Sherlock, you can't leave me. Do you hear me? You can't die and leave me alone, again. Remember? You died before and I almost took my life. If you die, even visions of yourself won't hold me back. Sherlock if you love me, come back. Or I swear, I'll come after you!" John lifted his head and looked up tears in his eyes "Sherlock, love, please come back to me!"

Doctor Watson spoke softly in his ear. "Sherlock, now look at John's spirit." 

Sherlock was taken aback at the bright golden light emanating from John. Sherlock could feel the incredible power of the light. He felt himself emitting rays of crystal blue love and sending it to his John.

John gasped. "Sherlock! Sherlock I feel you! I'd know you anywhere. Sherlock we're not done living! I have so much more love to give you!"

Doctor Watson touched Sherlock's arm and he opened his eyes with a start. 

"Doctor Watson, John, you...your spirit. It's exquisite!"

"Sherlock, that's our love for you Holmes'! We made many mistakes in our life on earth, but we never made the one you and John did. We never held back from loving each other." Holmes put an arm around Watson and pulled him close. He placed a kiss on his forehead. "We had to hide our love from society, but we never hid it from each other. Don't waste any more time. Make love together. Marry. Make a life full of love. You need its power to overcome Moriarty."

Sherlock nodded. He was ready to go back. "Tell me how to defeat him."

"Your timeline is different from ours. We can only tell you that you must take down "The Guardian Society". A charitable organization ruled by Moriarty. The society is evil incarnate. Hiding behind the banner of charity and good works, they plague society spreading loss and despair. Every goodhearted person who contributes to them, is actually contributing to the degradation of humankind. They prey on the very unfortunate people they claim to help." Holmes paused.

Sherlock asked, "What of Mary Morstan, she..."

"Oh, Mary! How lovely! She took another stab at life. How wonderful, eh, Holmes?" said Watson

"I'm so glad. Dying so young..." Holmes was interrupted by Sherlock.

"Mary is an assassin, who shot me, married John to burn the heart out of him and is carrying a child who is not John's. What do you make of that?" said Sherlock.

"By Jove! That is wonderful. Good old Mary." Holmes said, and noticing the astonished look on Sherlock's face he said, "She missed, obviously, she cares for you and John. She is a pawn in Moriarty's game. Win her over and the game is won." said Holmes.

"Holmes, what of the child? What if it is Moriarty's?" asked Watson.

"The child is all important, Sherlock. It must be raised by loving parents. Preferably, you and John. You must not let the innocent child turn to evil." Holmes said.

Sherlock was shocked. "John and I raise a child?"

Watson continued. "Holmes and I have raised several orphans. It takes a good man to raise a good child and you are a great man. You will make a superb father figure." Watson smiled. "And Sherlock, beware the poison Devil's Foot, "Radix pedis diaboli", it may still be used in your time, the antidote is blue sky flower or..."

Sherlock was suddenly pulled back into his body. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes wide. He remembered everything.

.oOOo.

Sherlock was taken to a private room, instead of the ICU, since by some miracle he was alive, fully awake, and in a raging fury.

"Bring me Doctor Watson immediately! He doesn't know I'm awake! Do you vampires usually like to torture grieving family members or is it a special class YOU took in med school? Stop fussing with me! Get Doctor Watson here NOW!" he bellowed.

"Mr. Holmes calm down! Mr. Watson was informed of your condition. I told him myself. I don't think he's in the waiting room now. He said something about needing air..."

"Did you inform DOCTOR Watson that I was awake and doing fine? That DOCTOR Watson could see me shortly?" Sherlock demanded.

"Well, no. It was right after your surgery. I told him your condition..."

"Did you tell him I DIED?" Sherlock was enraged.

"Yes, I thought he should know how serious..."

Sherlock grabbed the Doctor's tie and pulled him close. 

"If you do not find and bring Doctor Watson to me now, I shall rip this IV out of my arm and stick it in your eye!" Sherlock threatened.

Sherlock heard a sigh of relief and looked towards the open door.

"Brother, mine. So good to see the tales of your imminent demise have been exaggerated." Mycroft smiled and walked to the bed. He gently removed the Doctor from Sherlock's grasp. Sherlock relaxed into the bed, obviously exhausted. 

"Mycroft. This imbecile told John I had died on the operating table. I don't know where John is." Sherlock said softly to his big brother.

Mycroft sneered at the Doctor and made a note of his name. "Thank you for saving my Brother's life, Doctor. But your services are no longer required. And If I ever hear of you telling someone their loved one died and was revived, without regard to their mental state I shall have your license revoked." Mycroft took out his phone and said "Rand... John." and handed the phone to Sherlock.

Mycroft glanced at the red-faced Doctor who seemed to be in shock.

"Leave!" he said. The Doctor stormed out. 

Mycroft patted Sherlock's hand.

"John?" Sherlock said to the Randphone screen. John was sitting on a bench under a streetlamp outside the hospital. The evening had turned foggy and John's hair was glistening with golden droplets. You couldn't tell if the moisture on John's face was from the mist or from tears. Sherlock thought, "I've never seen anything more beautiful, or more heartbreaking."

"John, I'm fine. Come in out of the fog." said Sherlock with a smile.

"Sherlock? I...I...I'll be right there." The screen went blank.

"Do you need anything?" said Mycroft gently.

"No, Thank you. I...I'm glad you're here." said Sherlock.

Mycroft smiled. It was so seldom that Sherlock was nice to him, he wished he could just enjoy the moment, but someone had shot his little brother. And that was not allowed.

"Sherlock, John has told you about being my agent, hasn't he. It was Mary who shot you wasn't it?" Mycroft waited.

"Can't recall. I don't remember who shot me. I seem to have a bit of amnesia, Mycroft." said Sherlock. He wanted more time to think about what he should do next before letting loose his dragon-slayer of a brother.

"Then you won't care if I take every precaution to keep your poor addled brain safe? Including moving John to a safe house and arresting Mary for questioning?" Mycroft said in a silky tone.

"Mycroft! Please! Let me handle this. Let John and I handle this. There's more at stake than revenge on an assassin..."

...an assassin that murdered Sherringford, nearly murdered you and shot down my Partner..." Mycroft couldn't go on.

"I'm so sorry about Murray, Mycroft. You should have told me." Sherlock reached for his hand.

"Why, Sherlock? So you could have your proof that I had a heart? Well, don't worry I don't have one any more." said Mycroft.

"That's a lie, Myc. Murray never broke your heart. He left it full and intact. He'd want you to keep it that way." said Sherlock.

Mycroft stared at his little brother. "Sherlock? What's happened to you?"

"I died. I've been reborn." said Sherlock.

.oOOo.

John passed Mycroft as he rushed to Sherlock's room. He stopped to give Mycroft a brief hug, saying, "He's going to be alright, Myc." Mycroft smiled and nodded.

John checked all Sherlock's IV lines, and took note of his blood pressure. All the time rattling on about his miraculous recovery and how unusual it was. He promised Sherlock he'd find him a competent staff Doctor. Sherlock let him fuss and get it out of his system.

"John." Sherlock said.

"Yes, do you need..." said John.

"John sit on the bed here. I want to talk to you." John sit and took Sherlock's hand, slowly rubbing warmth into Sherlock's chilled fingers.

"John. I died." John shut his eyes.

"I know." whispered John.

"I spoke to our dear friends, Holmes & Watson." John opened his eyes.

"Y...you did?" John said softly. Sherlock smiled.

"I did. And I saw you in the waiting room. You are so exquisite, a golden illumination, filled with love. Love for me."

"Sherlock, I...I felt you ... saw... a crystal blue light. I somehow knew it was you. Thank you for coming back, Sherlock."

"No problem." said Sherlock. John laughed at how absurd that comment was. Then he did what he wanted to do since he walked into Sherlock's room. He kissed him with a life affirming urgency.

"I love you so much, Sherlock. Please, please stop dying." pleaded John.

"Love, I promise, never again." Sherlock and John shared a little laugh at that statement.

Sherlock was comfortable, thanks to John's ministrations and just the right dose of Morphine. He continued to talk.

Sherlock told John every detail of his death experience and John was astonished but never doubted a word. They began to devise a plan.

They would string Mary along, John would act the hurt Husband and Sherlock the understanding friend. They would watch and see what she would do. Eventually Mary would tell them about her past and then Sherlock would take her as a client and ask her to help them get to Moriarty in exchange for her freedom and a fresh start for her little girl. Magnussen was a problem John and Sherlock would face together.

"I like your plan Sherlock, but promise me you won't do anything till you are completely healed. We can wait that long." said John.

"Of course, Doctor." Sherlock smirked.

"Sherlock, I hesitate to say this, but you may want to leave Magnussen to your Brother. He has told me he has a plan, and may need me to play a role in it." said John.

"He asks too much of you! What does he want you to do this time?" Sherlock said.

"He wants me to assassinate Magnussen. If all else fails." John said coldly.

"No." Sherlock was livid.

"Sherl..." said John.

"No. I won't have you used as a killing machine. It's too much! You give too much! I won't have you with that on your conscious." Sherlock ranted.

"Sherlock. I've done it before." said John quietly.

Sherlock stroked John's strong arm. He said gently, "At what cost, my love."

"Sherlock I will always give my all to protect the people I hold dear. I can't count the cost." said John.

.oOOo.

John and Sherlock were standing outside of Magnussen's magnificent home. John was ready. More than ready to rid the world of this devil of a man. The time was coming, he could sense it. He heard helicopters approaching. He moved into position ready to take his gun out of his coat pocket and do his job. Kill Magnussen.

Suddenly everything was wrong. Magnussen was dead. Sherlock Holmes had murdered him. Sherlock would not allow John to damage his beautiful spirit any more than it already had been. Sherlock took the hit for John.

.oOOo.

John and Sherlock were saying good bye. The plane waiting to take Sherlock away was waiting patiently. Mary and Mycroft were waiting impatiently for John. John was putting on his best "We are Just good friends" act. Talking about baby names and absolutely nothing that was screaming in his heart desperate to get out. He Knew Mycroft and Sherlock had a plan to flush out Moriarty's brother. But what was taking so long? Sherlock was acting strangely. Did he forget that John had promised to follow him. Even if things went very wrong and Sherlock really had to leave? The Invisible soldier was ready. If the plane took off he would follow on the next flight. 

John was still puzzled at Sherlock's behavior. "He better not be hiding anything from me." John smiled at Mary, while thinking of his equipment that he had ready if he needed to follow Sherlock. He would settle Mary at home, head over to 187 grab his gear and take off. Maybe he would be able to get back before Mary's child was born.

After Magnussen was killed. John had told Mary about his being an agent. Also about his being deeply in love with Sherlock Holmes. She took it well, happy that the two men she loved in her life were including her in theirs. As Sherlock had predicted Mary was now interested only in saving her unborn child from a life of horrors as the child of Moriarty. She had agreed to help bring Moriarty and The Guardian Society down. Raising her child with the help and love of Watson & Holmes seemed like a dream come true.

John watched Sherlock's plane take off with great apprehension. He glanced at Rand who had already started tracking him. "In Transit" blinked in red letters.

A picture of Moriarty flashed on the screen. "Did you miss me?" 

John smirked and said quietly, "About time, you Wanker." John watched as Sherlock's plane turned around and headed home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for still being with me! Life got in the way of writing as it is wont to do. I will try my best to post more often now that we are near the end.
> 
> I truly appreciate all the encouragement I receive, since this is my first attempt at fanfiction.
> 
> LoVeLoVeLoVe to each of you!


	33. A Bit Of A Homecoming

An Opium Den Somewhere In The East End Of London, England, 1893

"San, go ahead and light the pipe. I'll smoke it. Moriarty will know if I don't. It will give you plenty of time to take my note to my friends."

San raised his eyes. "You are a good man, John. I have not met a good Englishman before. You are my friend. I will save you. I promise."

John smiled at this tiny warrior, so full of bravery and loyalty. He saw the man he would become if given the chance. "Remember, San, No matter what happens to me, do not return to this place. My friends will take care of you. Tell them it was my last wish. And tell them all I love them."

San took his hand and knelt in front of him. "You will not die. You are too good. I will go to Wiggins at 221b Baker Street. You will be saved before the dawn light fills the sky. You will see the light of a new day, John, I promise!"

San lit the pipe and handed it to John. He ran to the door and cautiously opened it and looked around. He turned to look at John one last time, nodded and was gone.

.oOOo.

Sherlock was sitting by the familiar fire of 221b. He was lost in thought, staring into the flames. The news Wiggins had just told him about John, frightened him to the core.

"Mr. Holmes. I'll never give up searching for the Doc. We know Moriarty has him. We'll find him. Moriarty will make a mistake. And now you're here..." Wiggins said hopefully.

"I never should have left his side. It's where I belong, Wiggins. I am nothing without him. He is my heart." Sherlock hung his head and buried his face in his hands.

Wiggins came to him and put a comforting arm around him.

"Mr. Holmes, I know the Doc feels the same about you. He needs you to be the brightest and the best Consulting Detective you can be right now. He's depending on you. Moriarty's no match for you. And all the people who love you both are behind you ready to do whatever you need to find him." said Wiggins

"Find him and cure him. Wiggins, I may have found an antidote for the Devil's Foot. I need to talk to Arthur. Then I need to go over all the evidence you have gathered once again, perhaps I will find something..."

"Doctor Conan Doyle is at the Watson's tonight. Along with everyone else. Care for a little bit of a homecoming party? We'll have a real one when we bring the Doc home." Wiggins smiled and rose, handing Sherlock his cloak.

"Thank you, Son." Sherlock helped Wiggins don his jacket over his broken arm. Sherlock touched the wounded arm gently. "And thank you for taking care of him, for trying to save him."

"'Bout time somebody looked out for the Doc for a change. I wish I coulda done a better job." Wiggins said sadly.

"We'll find him. Wiggins." said Sherlock.

.oOOo.

Sherlock exited the Hansom Cab in front of the Watson's residence. He turned to offer Wiggins a hand getting down. Wiggins whistled a tune to let the household know it was him coming to call.

Dora heard the knock at the door and turned to answer it. Davey cut her off and took her arm. "Dora it's a bit late for callers. Even if it does sounds like your Wiggins, let me answer it." Ever since John's disappearance Davey had been concerned for his Sister's safety. She was fearless. And often went to do charity work alone in places where most young ladies would fear to tread.

"Davey, he's not my Wiggins. I know you worry about me. You have become quite the chivalrous Gentleman." Davey smiled and opened the door. He was glad he did because Wiggins seemed to have some ill-dressed vagabond with him.

"Evenin' Master Davey! I bring a friend!" Davey stared at the vagabond.

Dora came up behind him. "Pray, do come in Officer Wiggins. And any friend of yours is welcome in this house." Dora said elegantly. She waved them in and closed the door.

Sherlock entered and gazed at Dora and Davey. Davey was tall now his curly ringlets tamed and cut short. He wore round wire-rimmed glasses. The eyes behind the glasses were observing the stranger. His manner showed his protectiveness of his Sister. Dora had become a true beauty. Her golden hair caught in a pink ribbon. Her soft muslin dress had a matching pink ribbon tied around her slender waist. A rosebud was pinned at her throat, accenting her gentle blue eyes. Her eyes were observing Officer Wiggins.

Sherlock smiled at his adopted children. Dora and Davey gasped at the same time.

"Mr. Holmes! Oh! Mr. Holmes!" Davey and Dora both exclaimed and hugged Sherlock tight. Dora broke away, and burst into happy tears. Wiggins was instantly at her side offering a handkerchief and a smile. Davey backed up a bit but kept Sherlock's hand in his shaking it firmly.

"What's all this?" Arthur and Oscar entered the room. They took in the confusing scene. Then Oscar caught Sherlock's eye. He held his breath and grabbed Arthur's arm.

"Holmes! Wonderful! Arthur it's him. It's Holmes!" Oscar pulled Sherlock into an embrace and held him close. Oscar's eyes filled with tears.

Arthur tipped his head and sighed. "Thank God. Thank God you've come home."

.oOOo.

Mary sat with the letter in her hands. Cathy sat right next to her with an arm around Mary's shoulder.

Mary looked around the room at the somber faces of all the people she held dear. She looked at Sherlock and was amazed to find him giving her an encouraging smile from behind his tea cup. She took heart and continued.

"My real name is Abigail Ainsworth. I went to school with Mary Morstan. She was a dear friend to me. We did everything together, we even looked alike. She was like a sister to me. I loved her." Mary glanced at Cathy and Cathy nodded.

"I am an orphan. My parents had left me with just enough money to keep me in boarding school. But when the trust fund was exhausted I would have nothing. Mary had a Father who she hardly ever saw, but his letters were full of love for her. It made all the difference, knowing someone cared. Mary contracted pneumonia. She died in my arms. She told me she wanted me to have everything she had. And asked me to write to her father. Her last wish was that her father might continue to correspond with me. And perhaps come to accept me as, if not a daughter, at least as friend who might help him in his grief."

"I loved Mary. I wanted to be Mary. I decided to become her. I confiscated the letter being sent to Mary's Father informing him of her death. It was easy fooling the school. They never cared that he hadn't come to take care of Mary's body. They were used to parents not caring. I copied Mary's style of writing and wrote to her Father. When I left school shortly after Mary's death. I became her."

She took in the room again. She saw only love on the beloved faces. Sherlock looked like an excited child hearing a favorite bedtime story. She said a silent prayer thanking God for this odd family of hers.

"That's when 'The Guardian Society" found me. That's when I found myself in Colonel Moriarty's office being interviewed for a job."

"He informed me that he knew who I was and who I was pretending to be. He informed me that Mary Morstan now worked for him. I agreed."

Oscar moved to the couch and placed a hand on Mary's. "My dear, what else could you do? With no Father or Brother to defend you, you were at his mercy." said Oscar kindly.

"Oscar is right. I should never had allowed a Sister of mine to work for such a fiend. He took advantage of your unfortunate plight." Arthur sounded outraged on Mary's behalf.

Mary smiled. "You are too kind to me."

"Mary, please, go on." said Sherlock softly. 

"I was not completely taken in. I used my time in "The Guardian Society" to find out about its evil works. Colonel Moriarty and his brother the Mathematician, founded The Society as a front for there varied criminal activities. The Society provided a never ending source of funds. Funds given freely by goodhearted citizens. No one ever thought to check where the charitable contributions were going. No one ever thought to check if their coins given with love ended up feeding a starving child or lining the pocket of an already rich man."

"The Moriarty Brothers were orphans. They devised a plan to place orphans into rich families. Then at the right time they would ask the parents for donations, and threaten to remove the now beloved and innocent child from their midst. The donations were made. They would also use orphans to set up an "Army" of trained assassins and thieves. They would pray on the weak minds of lost, lonely children. They formed schools and Summer Camps for this purpose."

"Sherringford!" Sherlock interrupted. "My older Brother died at one of those camps. They told my parents it was a shooting accident. He was only 15!"

Cathy rose and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock, we are so sorry for your loss."

"Sherlock, I am telling you this so that we may finally with your help bring Moriarty to his knees. Should I continue? Do you need a moment?" Mary asked.

Sherlock ran a hand over his face. "No, I am recovered. I need to hear this it may help John."

A look of pain came over Mary's face. Cathy returned to her side and kissed her brow. "Mary, dear, continue." she said.

"Moriarty came to me one day and said he wanted me to go to work as a Governess for a Mrs. Cecil Forrester. He was greatly agitated. She had refused his "Help" and then adopted orphans with the help of Sherlock Holmes. He was enraged. I was sent as a spy. I had no intention of following his orders. I thought i would send him false information, take the money I earned and go to Australia. Start life over again. I had not planned on falling in love." She turned to Cathy who gave her a smile.

"I told Cathy everything. I fed Moriarty only what I wanted him to know. Sherlock I can not give you much. But I have done what I can. Moriarty thinks you are dead. Moriarty thinks I am truly married to John. He kidnapped him because Moriarty blames John for his part in his Brother's death. He thinks John could have prevented it." Mary read from the letter.

"I deeply regret separating you from your devoted Husband, but I have great plans for him. You shall hear of him soon in all the papers. Do not despair, Dear Lady, I shall return what's left of him to you eventually. I am indebted to you for loaning him to me." Mary's voice broke. She was exhausted. Mary turned to Cathy and wept quietly in her arms.

Oscar took the letter and handed it to Sherlock. Arthur cleared his throat. "I think, Holmes, if you have no questions for my patient I shall see that she gets some sleep." Arthur stood.

Sherlock glanced at his friend's face. "Of course, Arthur, I have no questions for Mary now. But I need to talk to you after you've seen to her."

Arthur took charge. "Dora, dear, bring up some tea would you? Then I think you should retire also." said Arthur.

"Davey, get the Gentleman some Brandy, there's a good lad." Arthur and Cathy started to help Mary up the stairs.

"Mary." Sherlock embraced her. "You are brave and true. Thank you for your help. We'll find him. Then John will thank you in person."

Mary smiled through her tears and let herself be cared for by her family.

.oOOo.

Arthur returned to the sitting room and downed the glass of Brandy Davey had left for him.

"I am quite done in." said Arthur. "Oscar may I offer you a ride home when we are done or will you be staying?"

"I shall be glad of a ride when we are done. But somehow I feel this is home. I had entertained the notion when I saw Holmes this evening that Watson might be right behind him. Cheerfully watching Holmes' back with revolver in hand. I miss him so." Arthur placed a hand on Oscar's bent head, patting it gently. Arthur turned to Holmes and Wiggins who were sipping their Brandies and talking quietly.

"You wanted to speak to me Holmes?"

Sherlock stood and showed Arthur the note from Madam Starsky. The note with the blue sky flower drawn on it.

"This is the antidote for Devil's Foot. Do you recognize the flower?" said Sherlock.

Davey came up behind Arthur and looked at the drawing.

"I don't know the name. I suppose it's a blue flower?" Arthur looked puzzled. "Could it be from Africa, Holmes?"

"I hope not, Arthur. I hoped it would be common. Madam Starsky would not have known it if it wasn't used in cooking."

"It's Chicory!" exclaimed Davey. "Common Chicory. The flower is a sky blue. Blooms in late Summer. Mrs. Hudson uses it in coffee sometimes. She told me it's used as a substitute for coffee by poor folk."

"Good Boy! Yes, Holmes, Chicory. It will be easy to obtain the root. If we need the flower..." Arthur said.

"I know a great field of them, near The Tower. The flower heads will be dry, but still have potency. Mr. Holmes, I could go now..."

"Hold it, Davey. You ain't goin' nowhere alone or anywhere tonight, and if you sneak out, I'll put you in jail!" threatened Wiggins.

Sherlock spoke to Davey. "Tomorrow is soon enough, Son. I know you want to help. And Wiggins is right. Do not go alone."

"Anyway, Davey. I need a good man on duty to take care of the womenfolk tonight." said Wiggins.

Davey pulled himself up to his full height. "You can count on me, Wigs." said Davey.

The friends said their goodbyes, Arthur and Oscar heading home, Wiggins and Sherlock heading to 221b Baker Street. Davey sat up a long time, thinking of Summer days and open fields of blue flowers.

.oOOo.

John had tried to inhale as little of the fumes that he could. The air was full of the heady perfume of the Opium and the sickly sweet smell of the Devil's Foot.

John could feel the demons he had managed to push into the shadows awaken and stand before him. He wanted Sherlock so badly. John tried to remember his face, his laugh. He saw the caring face before him, but it changed. Changed before his eyes to a snarling scarred bloody face. John shrieked and pushed himself away. He scrambled into the corner of his dirty couch and turned his face to the wall.

Moriarty stood in the doorway chuckling to himself. He was letting the noxious fumes escape into the hall. In his hand was John's bejeweled dagger.

"Ahhhh, John, I see you are finally ready for the little job I have for you. John? Look at me!"

Moriarty gently turned John's face away from the wall. John's storm blue eyes were black and seeing only fearful shadows and ominous moving shapes. He tried to push Moriarty's hands away with a whimper. Moriarty laughed.

"Just like Jack. Heard of Jack the Ripper, my boy? He was one of mine. You see, I sent him out to rid himself of his demons. Just like I'm going to send you. Jack was excellent at it. He killed so many, that no one noticed the whore I really sent him after. So tidy, so melodramatic. Too bad he came back to himself late one night and took his own life. So sad." Moriarty pulled John to him and whispered in his ear.

"John the only way to rid yourself of the demons is to kill them. Take this." Moriarty gave John the dagger.

"You must go into the night and seek out the demons hidden in the bodies of the people of the night. You will know who to kill when you see them. You have the power to see the demons within them. You will save their soul if you plunge your dagger into their heart. Do you understand?"

John nodded. "W...will... Sherlock be sssafe...if I...if I..."

Moriarty gave him a puzzled look, then shrugged. "Yes, John. Sherlock's soul will rest in peace if you kill the demons. Alright then?"

John nodded once.

"Off with you then, my boy. Come back here when you are done. You will find rest only with me."

Moriarty watched as John stood, hid the dagger in his coat, and walked out the door.

Moriarty leaned back on the coach. A smile on his face. "John will do well. Even better than Jack. Oh, the possibilities." he thought. 

"San! San?" Moriarty called. "Where is that useless monkey? SAN?"

.oOOo.

San was hiding in the shadows near 221b when a Hansom cab pulled up. A tall man in a scruffy cloak helped a young Policeman with a broken arm out of the cab. San trembled with fear. He held John's note in his shaking hand. He summoned all his courage. He promised John. San came out of the shadows and approached the men.

"Wiggins?" San said bravely.

Both men turned. The older one's eyes seemed to take San apart.

"Cabbie! Wait a Moment! A message! Give it here, lad." Sherlock reached for the note.

San stepped back clutching the note to his heart. "Only Wiggins. John say Wiggins 221b." San was about to run.

Wiggins stepped in front of Sherlock. "I'm Wiggins. You have nothing to fear from me. I'm John's good friend. This is Sherlock Holmes John's Partner. You can give the message to me, little man. Then we can go inside and I'll get you some tea and biscuits for all your trouble, alright?"

San listened to Wiggins soft voice. He decided if John trusted him so would he. He gave Wiggins the note and stared at Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock and Wiggins read the note together. Their hearts in their throats.

"I know this place." said Sherlock. He turned to San and tried to soften his tone like Wiggins did. 

"Lad, John wants us to take care of you and I promise you we shall. The day you met John Watson was your lucky day. Tell me how was John when you left him." Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat.

"They do not harm him. They give him Opium, so he can not run away. But Moriarty did not know. It helped John's demons. Made him better. Tonight Moriarty gives him Opium with Devil's Root. Moriarty will make John kill for him. He has a dagger. You must stop Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes before he destroys good John."

"I will." said Sherlock.

"Go inside, little man. Tell Mrs. Hudson what has happened. Tell her Wiggins said to take care of you like she did me. Don't be afraid you're safe now." Wiggins smiled at San.

"No...I come..." San insisted.

"John wants you safe..." said Sherlock.

"I come." said San standing tall.

"Let's go." said Wiggins. He patted his revolver absently.

.oOOo.

The Cabbie stopped his horse outside the Opium den. Sherlock jumped out and ran inside followed closely by San. Wiggins threw a handful of coins at the Cabbie. 

"Find a policeman! Tell him Officer Wiggins and Sherlock Holmes need assistance at this address. Tell him to bring a wagon. Do it quick man! Or I'll track you down and serve your remains to your horse in a feed bag." Wiggins followed Sherlock inside.

Wiggins heard Sherlock's voice coming from a dark corridor. He pulled out his revolver with his good arm.

Moriarty stood facing Sherlock in the room where he had kept John prisoner. San stood unnoticed slightly in front of Sherlock. Moriarty had a gun aimed at Sherlock's heart.

"Sherlock Holmes... how? You... you are dead... you killed my Brother!" Moriarty stammered.

"Obviously you are mistaken. On both counts. Your Brother's death was suicide. And I am very much alive!" Sherlock said lightly.

Sherlock's tone changed. "Where is John?"

Moriarty laughed. "I sent him into the night to kill. I turned him into a wild beast. You cannot save him."

"I can and I will. You can not beat me Moriarty." Sherlock took a step closer. Moriarty instinctively took a step back.

"You did surprise me Holmes. You do play The Game well. But eye for an eye and all that you know."

Wiggins sprang into the room. Pushing Sherlock aside. San yelled. "Nooooo!" and jumped between Moriarty and Sherlock.

Two shots rang out. Moriarty fell. Instantly dead with a bullet in the brain from Wiggins revolver.

San landed in a heap at Wiggin's feet

Wiggins froze. He had never shot a man before. Never killed anyone. He felt sick. He began to shiver.

Sherlock picked up San and placed him on the couch. He glanced at Moriarty with a scowl. San cried out. Sherlock soothed him and examined him. The bullet had passed through his arm. Sherlock sighed with relief.

"Little man, you can open your eyes. You'll be alright. We'll take care of you." Sherlock took a somewhat clean pillow case and made a bandage. San opened his eyes.

"Sherlock? Wiggins? Alright? Moriarty dead?" San looked at Sherlock for reassurance.

Sherlock smiled. "You remind me of John. Asking if I'm alright when you, brave boy, are wounded. Thank you for saving my life" said Sherlock.

"I save you. I am yours now. I save John. I am his." San smiled and closed his eyes.

"Wiggins! I must look for John! Stay with the boy until help comes. Take him to the Watson's have Arthur look after...Wiggins?" Sherlock looked at Wiggins. He was leaning against the door frame. His hands covering his eyes. Quiet sobs raked over his body.

Sherlock went to him and touched his arm."Wiggins?" Sherlock asked.

Wiggins tried to compose himself. "Sorry, Sir. I...I never killed a man before. I don't know why I'm feeling like this. He was scum. He hurt The Doc..."

"Wiggins, it's alright. One should never take death lightly. Especially in our profession. I'm glad you value it so highly. You are a good man." Wiggins wiped his tears and nodded.

"I'll take care of everything, Sir, you need to find The Doc. I'll come find you as soon as I can." Sherlock nodded and was gone.

.oOOo.

John was lurking in the shadows in front of a junk shop. He thought he had found his demon. Up the quiet street a man was strolling and singing an old tune. He had his hands in his pockets and a smile on his face. He wasn't drunk. Just felt like a song. He had had a good day.

“When I was a Dandy  
My clothes were the best London made  
Now I am a poor man  
My clothes are worn and frayed.  
Wish I was a Dandy Boy ag’in.”

 

John looked around. There was no one else to be seen. His eye caught movement within the junk shop. John turned and looked in the window. There was a large mirror propped up. The kind people hung over their mantels. He saw his own reflection staring back at him. He saw what he had become. It filled him with disgust. John's eyes misted over. His image in the mirror started to change. He saw bright stormy blue eyes looking at him. His eyes, but different. The image smiled.

"Doctor Watson! What a surprise! Is anything wrong?" The modern day John was at 221B Baker Street. He was talking into the mirror above the mantel. Doctor Watson had appeared, but had not said a word of greeting. Sherlock was sound asleep on the couch.

Doctor Watson was used to the sudden appearances of shadows and demons. But this "John" was happy and full of life.

"Who are you? What do you want with me!" Watson cried.

"Doctor Watson, something's wrong I can tell. Is your Holmes alright? I mean, my Sherlock is right here. We are fine for a change. How can I help?" John said.

"Sherlock? Sherlock is there?" said Watson.

A sleepy Sherlock crept up behind John and wrapped his arms around him. He rested his head on John's shoulder.

"What are you doing, John?" he asked.

"Talking to Doctor Watson in the mirror. I think something's wrong with him." said John.

Sherlock peered into the mirror and smiled. "Doctor! How wonderful to see you!" Sherlock took in the Doctor's appearance. He saw the dagger in his hand. He saw his wild eyes full of fear.

Sherlock whispered to John. "He's drugged. Been abused. Kidnapped. Moriarty. We need to keep him talking till someone comes for him. I'm pretty sure that I...I mean his Holmes is frantically searching for him." John nodded.

"Sherlock?" said Doctor Watson. He put his hand flat against the store window. "It is you, my dear! You look strange, but it is you!" 

"Yes, my dear Watson. It Is your Holmes. Please put down the dagger. And tell me where you have been." said Sherlock calmly.

The singing man, Doctor Watson's chosen victim was getting closer.

“When I was a Dandy  
My ‘air was bonny brown  
Now I am an old man  
I wear a white fringed crown.  
Wish I was a Dandy Boy ag’in.”

"I...I have been with Moriarty. He told me I must kill to get rid of my demons. Oh, Sherlock... I... Please...tell me what to do." cried Watson. He clutched the dagger.

"My Watson, listen to me. I love you. I would never do anything to hurt you. I will not let you hurt yourself. You must listen only to me now. Only to your Holmes. Do not hurt anyone. Do not hurt yourself. You know I love you. Say that, my Dear. I want to hear it." Modern John took Sherlock's hand in his.

"I love you! I love you. I yearn for your touch. My mind aches for your words to fill it. My heart cannot go on without yours!"

The singing man was now upon the Doctor. He did not notice him at first hiding in the shadows. Sherlock saw the reflection of the man in the mirror. Heard his song.

"My Watson! Drop the dagger and look into my eyes!"

“When I was a Dandy  
I was gamblin’ all the time  
Now my Luck is over  
My fortune’s just a rhyme.  
Wish I was a Dandy Boy ag’in.”

Watson dropped the dagger. The singing man looked up. "Evenin'." he said, tipping his hat. He raised an eyebrow at the strange man in the shadows, shrugged and moved on. He took up the song again.

“When I was a Dandy  
My eyes were bright and blue  
Now my eyes are closin’  
My debts will all be due.  
Wish I was a Dandy Boy ag’in.”

Sherlock Holmes heard a man singing. The man paused and tipped his hat to someone in the shadows.

"My Watson!" Holmes ran passed the singing man. He stopped outside a junk shop, his heart beating wildly. He had found John.

Doctor Watson was facing the store window. His face still reflected in the mirror. He had been staring into Sherlock's eyes and had regained his reason for a moment. Then the image in the mirror swirled and disappeared.

"Noooo! Sherlock! Don't leave me. Don't leave me!" John banged on the window. His tears streaking the dusty glass.

Strong arms took John and turned him around. Sherlock gazed into John's tear filled eyes.

"John I'm here. Really here. I'm going to heal you. You don't have to cry, don't have to even think anymore. I have you back and I'll not leave again." Sherlock wiped away John's tears.

John whispered, "Sherlock?" and fell into his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WoW!!! Exciting stuff! Huh? Huh? I need some tea! Please, join me!
> 
> LoVe to all my readers!


	34. A Child Among The Angels

St. Bart's Maternity Ward, London, England 2015

"You look beautiful, Mary." John placed a kiss on the top of her head.

"Flatterer. Now SHE is beautiful." Mary smiled at the pink bundle in John's arms.

John looked down at the sleeping infant. Her little knit cap had slipped over one eye. John gently pushed it away. Her eyes opened and met John's. The trust he saw there overwhelmed him. He knew he loved her even if she was Moriarty's child. He would always protect her. 

Sherlock rushed into the room out of breath. 

"Mary, are you alright? Have you... I mean... did...did everything ...go as planned?"

Mary laughed. "Everything is fine Sherlock. Look!" she nodded at John.

"Meet Mary Jean Sherlock Watson." John took the precious bundle and placed her in Sherlock's arms.

"You named her Sherlock?"

"I think it's definitely a girl's name." said Mary. "Well, it fits this little girl anyway. I gave her name much thought. Mary, not for me, but to give the real Mary Morstan another chance at life. Jean, French for John and a nod to John's feminine side..." John chuckled and made a face. "And Sherlock, after the most incredible human being I know."

Sherlock gazed at the child, awed by her perfection. She seemed to Sherlock to be giving off a pink glow. She wiggled and took hold of Sherlock's finger. Crystal blue light and pink sunshine swirled around his hand. 

"Welcome, Little Angel. Do not fear. I will always protect you." he whispered.

John & Sherlock had both agreed to help raise Mary's daughter. Even Mycroft had finally relented, because of the innocent child. They all felt keenly the need to raise this child on the side of the Angels. Sherlock & John had also agreed to no longer hide their love from the world. John came over to Sherlock and kissed his cheek.

"It's scary being a Dad. Isn't it?" said John.

"I think you had better be her Dad. I'll be her Father." Sherlock said seriously.

Mary laughed and reached for her daughter. Sherlock gently transferred the child to her Mother.

"Mary Jean Sherlock, you have been born under a lucky star." Mary Jean gurgled agreement.

.oOOo.

John & Sherlock left he Hospital and ran into Lestrade who was coming to look in on Mary and the baby. Sherlock immediately engaged him in conversation about security.

"Sherlock I've never seen this much security for anyone, let alone a tiny baby girl. Don't worry. I'm a Dad. I understand." Lestrade smiled.

"Father, I'm her Father, John's her Dad." 

Lestrade laughed. "I'm so happy that you and John have finally come together. I can't wait to dance at your wedding. I know who I want to ask to dance with me too." Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"M...Myc..." Lestrade cleared his throat."Excuse me." Lestrade continued, his face turning a little red. "Mycroft has done a fantastic job on security. He has the safe house ready. He and me are making the transfer ourselves as soon as Mary and the baby are ready."

"Good. Good. John and I will be there as well." Sherlock looked around. John had moved away and was standing alone, looking down.

"Alright, Sherlock. See you soon." Lestrade called to John. "Bye, John." John didn't respond. Lestrade didn't notice as he hurried away, but Sherlock did.

Sherlock went to John and took his hand."I love being able to do this in public." He kissed John's hand. It was cold. John's face was pale. Sherlock noticed the hand he was holding was trembling. Then Sherlock understood.

"John, this is were I landed, isn't it?" John nodded. He was having trouble breathing.

Sherlock embraced John. "Alive, John. I'm alive. I love you. I'm not going away. Alive!"

Sherlock took John's hand and placed it on his own beating heart.

"Feel my heart beat, John. It beats for you. Only you. You keep it beating. Remember? I gave it to you. I'll never take it back, my love."

John relaxed and began to breathe more slowly. He felt Sherlock's heart beat. Steady and strong and it was his.

"I'm sorry, love. I thought I could handle it now that we're together. L...let's go home." said John.

.oOOo.

Sherlock took a cold, shivering John home to 221B. Sherlock got John to lie down on the couch and covered him with an afghan and many kisses. He whispered over and over again to John, "Alive! Alive!".

Sherlock took John's hand. "I'm going to make you tea and toast with jam. Unless something goes awry, I shall return shortly." 

"What could possibly go 'awry'?" John smiled and saw that Sherlock was ready to answer. "Never mind, silly question. I'd love a cuppa." John shivered a little as Sherlock made his way to the kitchen. "He's alive and he loves me." John said quietly, reassuring himself. He tried some new breathing exercises he had learned recently and was surprised when he began to feel better. 

When the kitchen smoke alarm finally shut off, and John had consumed his burnt toast and tea, Sherlock climbed under the afghan and promptly fell asleep on the couch beside John.

John smiled warmly at his sleeping Sherlock. 

After Moriarty made his reappearance, Sherlock found himself back to work with the blessings of Mycroft and the British Government. Sherlock wanted his life back. His life with John. Sherlock insisted that he and John visit a couples counselor. After only a few sessions, Sherlock was ready to give himself totally to John. Sherlock was determined that the abuse in his past would not rob him of his future with John. His near death experience had made it clear to him that John was meant to be his in spirit and in body, and Sherlock did not want to waste anymore time. 

John tried being completely honest with his Doctor for once. His Doctor worked with him and tried some new techniques and meds for his PTSD. He reacted well to his new regime and found that Sherlock's commitment to him and his old-fashioned excitement about marrying him helped to to overcome his physical problems more than anything else. "Making love to Sherlock Holmes," John thought and shook his head, "will be the single most incredible thing that has ever happened to me. And I invaded Afghanistan..." John laughed at his own silly inside joke.

John absently picked up his beloved old leather poem book. "Maybe I'll read aloud and slowly wake up Sherlock, so he'll make me more tea." he thought happily.

Circular thinking is driving me mad  
A thought of you and my heart grows glad.  
Yet wait for the turn and worried I’ll be  
That you’ll circle back and stop loving me.

Circular rings upon our hands,  
Secrets wound in our wedding bands.  
Why does a circle mean eternal bliss  
When it’s mostly formed of nothingness?

So strong the pull of your circular orbit  
I, your moon, circle never to quit.  
It seems we have been this way before  
Our souls have circled each others orb.

Circular thoughts, please, help me set down.  
Placing peace on my head like a crown.  
A circular crown of spiraling vines  
Binding me in an endless circle of time.

John noticed a movement in the mirror above the mantel. He slowly took off the afghan and rearranged it around Sherlock to keep him warm. John stood before the mirror, poem book in hand. His image in the mirror swirled and someone else was there. 

"Doctor Watson!..." called John.

.oOOo.

The transfer of Mary and her baby to 187 North Gower had been a success. 

Mycroft and Agent Davis had organized everything. There were no breaks in security. John had enlisted the aide of Billy Wiggins and Rand to make Mary and Mary Jean's homecoming as pleasant as possible. Sherlock was preparing to finally win Moriarty's Game. The Game Sherlock no longer wanted to play. 

A bright corner of the master bedroom at 187 had been turned into a nursery. Wiggins had found a street artist to paint a mural and transform the corner into a cheery place for an infant. The artist had decided on a Peter Rabbit theme, and had transformed the blank walls into the lovely world of Beatrix Potter. 

John had explained the situation to Rand.

"So Mary has reproduced a DNA replica of herself and Moriarty our enemy." Rand said.

"Well..." John sighed. "Yes." 

"And I am to protect the child and Mary and they are key holders." said Rand.

"Yes, Rand." said John.

"You and Sherlock are going to be the child's surrogate parents, correct?" 

"That's right Rand. We are going to raise her. Officially I am her Father. She is a Watson." said John with a bit of pride.

"When Murray died, you became my surrogate parent, Doctor. I am very glad of that. Does this mean that the child is my sister?" Rand sounded hopeful.

John thought about this crazy family that was forming around this innocent babe. John smiled.

"Yes, Rand, you are her big brother. And I expect you to take good care of her and protect her like you do me. She will grow and she will love you Rand, like I do." John waited.

"Doctor. I...I think I love her already. I want to make her a special file. I want to pull all data available on child development. I want to go on ebay and buy her things to match the chosen decorating theme of Beatrix Potter Art. I want to call her M J. Does this mean I love my baby sister?"

John smiled. "Yes, Rand."

"Doctor? May I have a Paypal account?" asked Rand.

John laughed. "Yes you may, only, use Mycroft's personal bank account, alright?"

"Thank you, Doctor!"

 

.oOOo.

Mary smiled at her nursing daughter. She had been at 187 for a week now. She looked around the beautiful room, and once again was overwhelmed by the remarkable changes in her life brought about by John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. She nuzzled her sweet smelling baby. Mary was never alone. John & Sherlock, Agent Davis, Greg Lestrade & Mycroft were always in and out. Wiggins came by often with fish & chips or to try out a new recipe in the kitchen. He was a wonderful cook.

"Mary Jean, you are very loved. Mummy loves you!" she kissed her baby's tiny head. "And your Dad and your Father love you!" two more kisses. "And even Uncle Mycroft, in his own way, loves you." one more kiss was bestowed.

"And me! Tell my baby sister I love her!" said an excited voice.

Mary smiled. "You tell her Rand, she loves your voice."

"M J, I love you!" Mary Jean cooed.

"I must add that noise to my data, I am cataloging all her noises and correlating the sounds to possible meanings and needs." said Rand.

Mary chuckled. She enjoyed talking to Rand. She appreciated that her baby and herself could not be in better hands. Rand as her baby's personal security guard made her feel safe. A very hard thing to accomplish. Mary liked that Rand was completely taken with M J.

"Rand, I must thank you again for the wonderful job you and the others have done with the nursery." Rand had ordered a mix of antique, and period reproduction baby furniture and a Victorian rocking chair for the nursery.

"I really love this antique tin sign." Rand had purchased an advertising sign for 'Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail Blackberry pies, est. 1904.' It had a picture of the good little rabbits and their baskets full of blackberries.

"Yes." said Rand. "I wanted to emphasize to M J, the fact that the good little rabbits that did what their mother said got blackberries to eat. They didn't wander off like naughty Peter. He was almost baked in a pie." Rand was deadly serious.

Mary understood that to Rand, the story of naughty Peter Rabbit would be highly disturbing. "How could he protect a child if they were naughty and wandered away?" Mary thought.

"Rand, that story took place before computers were even thought of. Mrs. Rabbit never had a protector like you for her little rabbits. Farmer McGregor wouldn't stand a chance against your security." Mary smiled, and looked again at the beautiful mural. "I'm glad my little one is living in a the world of love and happy little rabbits."

Mary put the babe down in her crib for her nap, and adjusted the small holster and gun she hid under her jacket.

.oOOo.

Two weeks later, there was a celebration at 187. Mary Jean's personal pediatrician had said that she was now 10 pounds, healthy, and thriving. She was sound asleep after her busy day.

Wiggins had prepared braised lemon sole with fried zuccini wedges, tiramisu for dessert.

Mycroft, Lestarde, Sherlock and Mary were enjoying coffee in the sitting room. Agent Davis was in the basement doing some cleaning and maintenance on Rand's inner workings. An occasional, "That tickles, Davis!" was heard from Rand. John and Wiggins had shared a cab home. John had promised Mrs. Hudson he would see her off, she was taking a cruise with her Senior self-defense and Tai Chi group. 

After dropping Wiggins off at Murray's Fish & Chips, and waving goodbye to the limo full of dangerous Seniors with lethal weapons for hands, John was enjoying the peace of 221B.

"I think I'll work on my book till Sherlock comes home." he said to no one. John had been toying with the idea of re-writing the lost "Adventures of Sherlock Holmes". His novel was set in Victorian England and Doctor Watson & Holmes the main characters. He played with Doctor Watson's button that he kept in his pocket. He wished he could have long talks with his muses. But he found all the inspiration he needed from the wonderful poems of the Doctor. The idea was exciting and he sometimes had the strange feeling he was channeling some Victorian writer, often amazed at what he had written. It was as if he had written it all before.

John was so absorbed in his writing that he hadn't noticed how late it was. John stretched, he was a bit chilly and stiff. He went to the kitchen to brew some tea. John shivered. He thought he might light a fire. "That would be nice. Sherlock would come home to a cheery blaze. I'll ask him to play for me. I love how he looks playing violin in the firelight." John smiled and grabbed the matches.

.oOOo.

Mycroft was saying goodbye to Greg at the door. Sherlock was talking quietly to Mary. 

"Mary do you think my brother and Lestrade..." Sherlock motioned to the door. Mycroft was laughing, a genuine smile on his face.

"I think it's not our business. But... it would be lovely, wouldn't it?" Mary playfully smacked Sherlock's shoulder and winked.

"Oh, God." Sherlock paled at the thought.

.oOOo.

Mary was saying her goodbyes. She needed to nurse the fretting Mary Jean. She thanked Sherlock giving him a hug and getting one in return. She approached Mycroft and tentatively offered her hand in thanks. Mycroft took it and placed a kiss on her hand.

"Let's think only of the child and her future, shall we? I think my Murray would have wanted it that way." Mary nodded and smiled her eyes holding back a few tears.

.oOOo.

Sherlock and Mycroft continued their earlier discussion in the quiet sitting room.

"The Guardian Society network is vast, Mycroft. It truly is an Army. The Moriarty brother that died was a decoy. He took his own life, because he no longer wanted to play his brother's game. His brother calls himself Colonel Moriarty. He owns rehab centers, homeless shelters. food banks and distribution centers. Every charity you can think of and every thrift shop in every little town in the UK. He makes millions every day in charitable contributions. Not to mention the donated electronics and computers that he re-sells overseas. Those electronics end up in poor villages where children burn off the lead solder and reclaim the minuscule amounts of gold available, trading their health for a few dollars."

Mycroft sighed and started to pace. "Unlimited funds, unlimited supply of underpaid staffing with no benefits, and volunteer labor under the guise of 'Work Therapy', unlimited access to government subsidies, a vast army of unsuspecting pawns, unlimited power." Mycroft shook his head.

"How will we take him down, Sherlock?" Mycroft looked at Sherlock. Sherlock stood and placed a hand on Mycroft's arm.

"He wants the child. Mary meant nothing to him, just a surrogate for his dead brother's DNA. Someone that desperate won't stop obsessing. He will make a mistake, Mycroft." Sherlock said confidently.

"But who will be left standing, Brother Mine?" asked Mycroft.

"He will be the one to fall, Mycroft. I'm sure." Sherlock smiled.

"How can you be sure?"

"Let's say I've had a vision, Brother." Sherlock chuckled. "Shall we call it a night. Drop me off home?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course." Mycroft raised his voice slightly. "Agent Davis? Everything secure?"

"Rand's good to go, Boss. I'll camp out down here tonight." said Davis through Rand.

"Good, see you tomorrow, Davis. Goodnight Rand." said Mycroft.

"Goodnight Master Mycroft! Goodnight Mr. Holmes!" Rand said cheerily.

"Master." said Sherlock, laughing at his brother.

"What are you laughing at Mr. Holmes?" Mycroft countered.

.oOOo.

John sat in his chair enjoying the fire in the grate. He was mesmerized by the shapes in the flames. He was imagining dragons. Formed of fire. Carrying death and destruction.

He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. "I must be more tired than I thought, seeing Dragons." John continued to stare into the flames. The dragons dispersed and now there seemed to be fiery faces. Their mouths opened. Screams came out in the form of cracking and hissing flame.

John stood. He was breathing heavily as if he was terrified. "I am terrified!" he said aloud. "W...what's happening to me?"

John glanced around the room. Moving shadows were everywhere. He grabbed for his phone.

"R... Rand... I need help. I need Sherlock!" There was no answer.

He fell on his knees. A fine swirling smoke was filling the room. His hand found Doctor Watson's button in his pocket. John heard The Doctor's voice in his head.

  
Swirling smoke and musky fumes  
Quickly filled the entire room.  
Never told a living soul of what I saw.  
A horror filled my mind,  
Of a vaguely wicked kind,  
In a black-cloud of menace, my senses were appalled.  
I saw an open door,  
It froze me to my core.  
A silhouette, a dweller upon the threshold.  
I bade him to come in  
Though fear crawled on my skin.  
He threw back his head with a laugh that blasted my soul.

John looked towards the door of 221B. He knew if he opened it the Dweller would take him. He heard a frantic voice. He struggled to stand and turned to the fire. The smoke parted and he saw Victorian Sherlock in the mirror.

"Holmes! H...help me!" John pleaded.

"John! Run! Get out! Get out! Get out of the building! You need fresh air. The Devil's foot, John. The smoke is poison. John! Get out, Damn you! Get out! Listen to me!"

John staggered. He couldn't move towards the demon on the threshold. 

"John, I love you. Don't do this to us. Trust me! Open the door! Get out!" Holmes had his hand up against the glass, willing John to move. His eyes filling with tears.

"John, P...please. Don't make me watch you die!" John opened his eyes wide. Holmes was crying. John needed to stop that. He knew he must try to obey Holmes. He grabbed Doctor Watson's poetry book. It seemed to give him the strength he needed. John lunged for the door, opened it, and stumbled down the 17 steps. He reached the front door and fumbled with the doorknob. The door opened, the cold fresh air hit his face. He crumbled on the threshold.

.oOOo.

Agent Davis was having a game of chess in the basement with Rand before retiring. It was a good way to check if Rand was in top form. And he simply enjoyed a good game of chess. 

"Your move, Rand." said Davis. He looked up."Rand?"

"Davis...I...am being Hhhhacked! Mor...iarty!" Rand sputtered.

Davis ran to the small room containing Rand's workings. He took a deep breath and pulled out Rand's hard drive. A jolt of electricity went through his body and he collapsed on the floor, clutching Rand's heart to his own.

.oOOo.

Mycroft insisted on being taken home first, and Sherlock decided to allow it. Mycroft's driver was now heading towards Baker Street. Sherlock was looking absently out the window. He was enjoying his new life with John. After his near death experience, he enjoyed things like celebrations, hugs, rocking his daughter to sleep, and even talking to his brother. Most of all he enjoyed ending each day in John's arms. He smiled and reached for his Randphone.

"Rand... get me John." he said pleasantly.

There was no answer. Sherlock felt as if the world had stopped turning.

"Agent! Turn around! Get back to 187 North Gower! NOW!" Sherlock yelled.

"Yes, Sir, Mr Holmes, Sir!" The driver obeyed, and eyed his passenger in the mirror carefully.

"Is communications down? Can you reach Mycroft? Give me your gun, I may need it." Sherlock demanded.

"Hold it, Sir, I ain't no Secret Agent. I ain't got no gun. I just do sub work for my buddy. I...I got a mobile phone. Want to call somebody?" the driver was scared to death.

Sherlock snatched the plain old phone from the driver. He fumbled with it cursing.

"This antique doesn't even have a keypad!" Sherlock screamed. The only number he could reach was 999.

.oOOo.

Mary had been reading in the rocking chair in her room. The room was suddenly plunged into darkness.

"Rand?" There was no answer. Mary's blood ran cold. She carefully went to the dresser and lit the old fashioned oil lamp Mycroft kept there. She looked around the room. She took the tin pie sign off the wall and wrapped it in a baby blanket. She placed it carefully in Mary Jean's crib. She reached for her loaded gun removed the safety and replaced it in its holster carefully. Then she waited for the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

There was a man in the dark doorway of the bedroom. The man had a gun.

"Hello, Mary." Moriarty said. "I've come to see my little niece. I'm sorry I didn't come sooner, but there were some things I had to take care of first." Moriarty stepped into the soft light of the oil lamp.

"Don't touch her, Colonel." Mary's voice was steady and hard.

"My dear, she is mine, as you are mine. You have a choice. Accompany me tonight and care for my niece like a good Mother. Or make her an orphan like you were. It matters little to me what you decide. The child comes with me." Moriarty chuckled.

"I even have a car seat for her. I'm a good Uncle aren't I, Jamie Moriarty." Moriarty addressed the child.

"Don't call her that!" Mary hissed.

"Why ever not? That's her name." Moriarty stepped closer to the crib.

"Her name is Mary Jean Sherlock Watson!" Cried Sherlock as he entered the room and lunged at Moriarty.

Two shots rang out. Moriarty fell. Instantly dead with a bullet in his brain from Mary's gun.

Mary Jean let out a loud frightened cry.

Sherlock ran to her and gathered her in his arms. Repeating soothing sounds and desperately searching the little body for a gunshot wound. 

Sherlock looked at Mary and said in a trembling voice. "She's al...alright! She's unharmed!"

Sherlock held Mary Jean tight against his heart.

Mary was completely calm as she showed Sherlock the antique tin sign that was hidden in the crib. Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail had a bullet lodged in one of their berry baskets.

"Take Mary Jean to the sitting room, Sherlock. I'll check on Agent Davis." Mary placed a hand on her daughter who was calming down and making tiny hiccuping noises. Sirens were heard as the police arrived.

"It's over, my dear, finally over." she whispered in her baby's ear. She touched Sherlock's arm and gave a gentle squeeze. 

"Go, Sherlock. I don't want her to remember this. I want her to remember her Father Sherlock taking away her fears." 

Sherlock went to the sitting room and stood before the sideboard gently rocking and humming to Mary Jean. The gaslight fixtures cast a warm glow and flickered in the mirror.

Lestrade arrived, brandishing a gun. A worried expression on his face. Mary explained, and Lestrade took control. Mycroft arrived shortly after Lestrade.

Mycroft comforted Agent Davis who was fading in and out of consciousness. He assured him Rand would be fine and gently removed Rand's hard drive heart from Davis' hands, so the paramedics could tend to the dazed Agent. The paramedics assured Mycroft that Davis would be fine.

Mycroft came up behind Sherlock. Sherlock saw him coming in the mirror. The mirror grew foggy, and Sherlock held his breath.

"Oh, no." Sherlock said quietly.

Doctor Watson appeared in the mirror. "Is it John?" Sherlock asked the image.

Doctor Watson nodded. "Yes." he said.

"My dear, Sherlock. My Holmes is with him now. Moriarty put the Devil's Foot in the fire grate. John lit a fire and inhaled the poisonous fumes. I'm sure that my Holmes will get him out in time. Sherlock, listen! The antidote is Chicory. Blue Sky Flower. You must hurry before he succumbs to the demons he sees in his mind."

"Can he die? Doctor?" The image started to fade.

"Hurry!" Doctor Watson called.

"Sherlock? What on earth are you doing?" Mycroft could see nothing in the mirror. 

"John is in danger!" Sherlock handed Mary Jean to her astonished Uncle.

"Lestrade! Drive me to Baker Street! Don't ask questions!" Sherlock shouted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Mary Jean Sherlock Watson."
> 
> I've read so many fanfictions where the author has named this lucky child. Most of the names were incredibly well thought out. Makes me feel special to get a chance to try my hand at it. I can't wait to see what Gatiss et. al. come up with!
> 
> It took me months to come up with this one. I even tried my hand at making an anagram of Sherlock, but nothing seemed right. I like 'Jean' as a tie in to Sherlock's French side. And I feel that gender shouldn't matter if you want to honor someone by naming your baby after them. I really wanted Sherlock to be the first name, but I thought since it is Moriarty and Mary's child in my story, that Mary would feel strongly about giving the child a fresh start in life. So another Mary, given another chance at life was my solution.
> 
> (Plus, my Irish family is full of Marys. I have an Aunt, a Grandma, a Great Grandma by that name. And cousins galore with various Mary based names. My name is Maureen, little Mary in Gaelic and my daughter's name is Moira, Gaelic for Mary Agnes. Now my fanfiction baby can join the family.)
> 
> So! What's your baby Watson name? Come on, I know you have one!


	35. The Power Of Love

A Dark Street somewhere in The East End of London, England 1893

Sherlock held John tight as he fell into his arms. Sherlock sat on the cold, damp sidewalk and pulled John close. John rested his head in Sherlock's lap. He opened his eyes.

"Who is there? Are you real?" John reached up and touched the shadowy face. His hand felt tears.

"My Watson, my dear. Do you know me?" Sherlock cried.

"Shh...Sherlock? Oooo, it can't be. Be gone foul shadow! Taunt me no more, my heart can not stand it!" John made a feeble attempt to move away, but Sherlock held him tighter.

"John, John! It is me! I am here! I came to save you. I have returned!" Sherlock took John's flailing hand and brought it to his heart. "You know my heart, John. Feel it beneath your hand. It beats for you and only you."

John grew still and focused on the heartbeat he knew so well. Warmth spread from his hand and filled his whole body.

"Sherlock? My love?" John smiled weakly. 

Sherlock bent down and kissed John's lips. John moaned and grasped Sherlock's face in his hands. The kiss deepened and John felt Sherlock's love fill him. His battered brain conjured an image of brilliant crystal blue light. The light flowed into every dark corner of his mind. When he pulled away, he could see Sherlock's eyes glowing like blue flames, piercing and warming his own stormy eyes.

"Oh! Oh! Where are you, My Watson? I must have you back. I will never let you go again!" Sherlock held John's head to his chest. 

Sherlock's steady heartbeat lulled John into a fitful sleep. A few minutes later a police ambulance driven by Wiggins found them.

.oOOo.

John woke to the feeling that someone was watching him. He looked around without moving his head. "I know where I am! This is my Kensington home. My bedroom. I'm home!" John heard a deep chuckle beside him. He looked towards the sound.

"Do you know you said that out loud, My Watson?" Sherlock continued to chuckle.

"Sherlock?" John whispered.

Holmes was next to John but on top of the covers. He was fully and handsomely dressed in a brand new dark gray wool suit. He was reclined with his ankles crossed and his head resting on an elbow. He had been watching John sleep, as he had every day for the past week.

Sherlock ran his hand through John's hair.

"It is really me, love. You are really home." Sherlock had said those words over and over to John in the past week, never sure if John believed him. John had answered with that same frightened "Sherlock?" every time. This time Sherlock spotted a warm glow in John's eyes that he had despaired of ever seeing again.

"John? Doctor John Hamish Watson?" Sherlock smiled as his heart filled with hope.

John nodded and smiled.

"I'm back, my love. Sorry I took so long. You look... dashing, I must say." John saw the joy on Sherlock's face, and started to chuckle himself.

"John! I love you!" Sherlock buried his head in John's side as John reached out to hold him.

"Sherlock you are like a child sometimes, it is quite endearing. I love you, too!" John laughed. Sherlock thought John's laughter was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

"What's this? What's this? What are you doing to my patient, Holmes?" Arthur smiled as he entered the room. San hung back watching the scene.

Holmes pulled away from John reluctantly and stood up.

"Me? Watson's the one who nearly made my heart stop by announcing he is back! But I see he will get all the sympathy in this house." Sherlock glanced at Arthur, and Arthur could see that Sherlock needed confirmation that John was alright.

"I shall be the one who says how my patient is doing, thank you very much!" Arthur sat on the bed and looked at John. He took his pulse. and looked into his eyes.

"John, do you remember what happened to you?" Arthur observed that John was not as pale as he had been. His eyes looked clear and alert.

"Yes, almost everything. I was kidnapped. Given Devil's Foot and Opium, by Moriarty. He wanted me to kill for him. He wanted me to be the next Jack the Ripper." John looked towards Sherlock. "He said Jack was one of his, Sherlock!" Sherlock's eyebrows went up.

"John, is Sherlock here with us in this room?" Arthur asked pointedly.

"He's right there, Arthur! Why on earth did you ask me... Oh, I thought Sherlock was a phantom all this time?" asked John.

"Yes." said Arthur.

"Oh, Sherlock, that must have been hard for you, I'm so terribly sorry. That devil Moriarty..." John started to rage.

"It is alright, John. Moriarty is dead. Wiggins shot him. He tried to kill me, shot San in..."

"San?" cried John. "Oh, dear God, no..."

"I am here, John. Do not be upset, I am fine!" San ran to the bed, and took John's hand.

John looked at his little warrior. The Ladies of the house had lavished attention on the boy. His hair was fashionably cut, he was wearing one of Davey's fine suits, new boots were shining on his feet. His wounded arm was in a spotless sling, and he had even gained a few pounds. But John had never seen the boy grin before. John pulled him into a hug, and kissed his clean smelling hair.

"San, thank you for saving me! I owe you my life, you wonderful boy! Where were you shot? Do you have any pain? Arthur? Any sign of infection? Did he have a fever? Should he be up and about? Maybe I should take a look..." John fussed with San's jacket, making him giggle.

Arthur laughed. "Holmes, no need to worry. Doctor John H. Watson is undeniably back."

.oOOo.

John's first day back from the shadows was filled with the sunny smiles of those he held dear. Dora made him breakfast, and helped him eat it as Mary told John about her past. John listened, and wiped her tears when she cried. Exhausted, Mary let Dora help her to her bedroom for a nap. Dora returned to John to carry away the dishes.

"Dora? Sit with me a while, dear." Dora sat primly on the edge of the bed.

"You must have worked very hard caring for Mary, San and myself. Three patients and only one little nurse! Are you very worn out?" John was concerned for her own health.

"I always have so much help, Davey & Wiggins..." She looked away slightly and blushed. "I like feeling needed. I love nursing people." Dora's blue eyes shone.

"Dear? Would you like to attend a nursing college? I can make inquiries. You're almost 16. Quite a woman. Quite a good nurse, too." John smiled.

"I would like that, Doctor Watson. I'd like to know I could make my own way in the world, and if someday I marry, I could bring to the marriage something more substantial than white lace and a pretty face." Dora said.

"You have become a woman I see! I'll talk to Cathy. Oh, and I think you can call me John now. We'll let Davey call me Doctor Watson." John chuckled.

"Alright, John. I'm so glad you're better! You need a nap too. You rest and get your strength back. I'll bring you something extra nice for your tea." Dora gave John a quick kiss on the cheek and was gone.

.oOOo.

John did take a nap, and when he awoke, he found Sherlock once again watching him sleep. This time he was sitting in a chair by the bed.

"Any nightmares, My Watson?" Sherlock said solemnly.

"Not one." John stretched and something occurred to him. "Why is that, My Holmes, how was I cured?"

Davey & Oscar entered the room.

"That was I, Doctor Watson! I saved your life!" Davey bragged.

"Well, I like that!" said Oscar "Seems you had some help Davey Boy. I've still got blisters!"

John looked at Sherlock for clarification.

Sherlock started the tale of Madam Starsky and the Blue Sky Flower and all John had missed. John was enthralled.

Near the end, Davey jumped in. "While Wiggins and Mr. Holmes were dealing with Moriarty. I took care of the cure. Oscar came before dawn with his carriage, all dressed up for a safari. I was embarrassed to be seen with him." Oscar snorted and gave Davey a playful smack on the head.

John smiled and said, "Go on." 

Davey continued."But I knew I had to get that Chicory for you. So we went to the old field by The Tower and dug up all the Chicory plants we could find. By the time we came home, you and San were here being cared for. We cleaned and roasted the Chicory roots added the dried flowers and made your medicine. We put it in broth to give you some nourishment. It took a while to work. We were all scared for a while, especially Mr. Holmes." Sherlock looked at John. Their eyes met, and Sherlock looked away.

"You thought we were poisoning you at first. Only Mr. Holmes could get you to drink. And even then you kept asking him if he were a Dark Angel, if he was there to end your misery." Davey thought he'd said enough about that from the look on Mr. Holmes face.

"But then you got real quiet and mellow. I'd say that old Chicory saved your life." Davey ended the tale on that note.

The sound of Cathy's excited voice and footsteps on the stairs brought everyone's attention to the doorway. Cathy entered, her arms carrying a vase of beautiful hothouse red roses. Behind her a weary Wiggins carried an armload of wrapped packages, a man's hatbox balanced on top. His broken arm had finally healed and Cathy was more than glad to accept his offer of toting packages for her while she shopped.

"Wiggins! Put those packages over there." Cathy absently waved to an empty tea table. "We must get Sherlock ready..." She looked over at John's smiling face.

"John! Oh, John!" she cried. Oscar grabbed the vase of flowers just before she let go of it. Cathy ran to John's bedside and took his face in her gloved hands. She looked into his eyes and her own filled with tears.

Cathy took his hand and kissed it. "We've all missed you so much!"

Behind her Wiggins had dropped all the packages, missing the tea table entirely. Wiggins turned to Holmes.

"Is he alright, Sir? Is...is he really... back with us?" Wiggins asked, the words catching in his throat.

Sherlock stood as he smiled and nodded.

Cathy moved away from John, pulling out a hankie to dry her happy tears. Sherlock put an arm around her shoulders.

"Doc?" said Wiggins.

John opened his arms and Wiggins went to him. John held him close as Wiggins talked through his tears.

"Oh, Doc! You're back. We were that scared you wouldn't make it. I am so sorry I couldn't find you, couldn't keep you safe. I killed him for ya Doc, he'll never get to you ag'in. I'll never let anyone harm ya ag'in." Wiggins sobbed.

"There, there, My Boy! Don't cry because of me. I'm ever so proud of you, Son. I never lost faith that you'd keep looking for me. I love you, My Boy." said John softly.

Wiggins pulled back and gave John a timid smile. "I love ya too, Doc." he said.

Cathy turned to Sherlock and tried to lighten the mood, much to Wiggins relief.

"Sherlock Holmes! Look at that brand new suit!" She began to fuss and dust it. "Have you been sleeping in it?" Sherlock smirked and shrugged.

Cathy addressed John and Wiggins. Wiggins was smiling broadly now, yet kept John's hand in his.

"Sherlock only has an hour till Brother Mycroft comes to collect him! And look at him! He's not fit to have tea with the Queen!" announced Cathy.

John's eyes opened wide. "Sherlock? What does she mean?" asked John.

Cathy tugged and straightened Sherlock's clothes as he explained.

"It seems that when Moriarty's death was announced, Queen Victoria received a deluge of letters from good British citizens that 'The Guardian Society' had harmed. Each letter told a more heartbreaking tale than the next as you can imagine. The Queen's secretary told Mycroft about it, and Mycroft, after consulting me, told the Queen. She was outraged. She felt she had also been duped by the Moriarty Boys. Mycroft is overseeing The Society's reformation. And the Queen wants me for tea to discuss it. I do hope she serves Earl Gray with lemon, I do like it so." Sherlock went to straighten his collar, but Cathy pushed his hand away.

"Oscar, dear. Help me open these packages. We must get him ready." said Cathy.

Davey said proudly, "Mr. Holmes is going to get a Knighthood!"

"Holmes! How wonderful! I am thrilled for you!" exclaimed John.

"I will not accept it, John. Although, I am honoured." said Sherlock.

"Not accept it? Why ever not?" asked Oscar, as he helped Sherlock don a beautiful pair of kidskin gloves.

Sherlock sighed. "When a married man receives a Knighthood, his wife is also honoured. She becomes a Dame, a Lady and all the benefits of her new title are bestowed on her. If she has been a good and true help meet, she has earned the right to that title along with her Husband. Do you not all agree?" asked Sherlock.

Wiggins, Davey and Cathy nodded in agreement. 

Oscar said, "Of course. She has stood by him. In sickness and in health, for richer and poorer..."

John said nothing, but watched Sherlock closely.

"I took those vows with John. I meant every word. And until there comes a time when I might stand in front of Queen and Country and accept a Knighthood that honours us both. I shall decline the honour altogether." 

John grew very still. He looked down and cleared his throat. Emotion overwhelmed him. Sherlock reached for him and patted his head.

"Shall I bring you back something from the palace, John?" Sherlock joked. "Perhaps I could pilfer an ashtray for you?"

"Good Heavens, Holmes! What an idea! You go to tea and behave yourself. Make me prouder than I already am, if that is possible!" laughed John.

"Ooooo! Look at this beauty!" exclaimed Oscar as he lifted an overcoat from a large parcel.

The overcoat was made of a fine dark wool. It was of a very modern style. It had a wide collar and a generous sweep. The lapel sported a boutonniere outlined in red thread. Oscar helped Sherlock into the overcoat. Cathy turned the collar up.

"It suits you." said Oscar.

"Just needs..." Cathy pinched a red rose from John's handsome bouquet, and placed it in Sherlock's lapel.

Davey had opened the hatbox and placed the lovely black top hat on Sherlock's head.

"There you go, Sir! Trimmed up just like a Christmas tree!" laughed Davey.

Wiggins went to the window. "I think your carriage is here, Mr. Holmes!" said Wiggins.

Sherlock came to John and whispered in his ear. "Get some rest, dear-heart. I shall return shortly and regale you with amusing stories of my outing. I intend to make my brother blush and stutter. I adore doing that. I love you!" Sherlock kissed John's cheek and was off.

"Behave!" John called after him.

.oOOo.

Late that night, Sherlock's finery was discarded in a pile in John's bedroom. And Sherlock dressed only in his nightshirt was nestled under the covers next to his Watson. They were giggling softly so as not to wake the house.

"Then the Queen turned to Mycroft and said, 'And what were you doing while poor Doctor Watson was in such grave danger?'" Sherlock used a high squeaky voice to imitate Queen Victoria. Which made John giggle some more.

"Oh, oh, no! Sherlock, you jest!" giggled John.

"I assure you, I am quite serious. It was lovely to watch him squirm. But I saved his hide as usual by distracting her with the tale of our little warrior San and brave Wiggins. I believe Wiggins may get a commendation out of all this." said Sherlock.

John relaxed against Sherlock, resting his head on Sherlock's chest. John was still very weak and could not leave his bed without aide, but his mind was clear and he was enjoying being close to Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled John close, both were silent for a while. Sherlock pulled a quilt up around them and tucked John in.  
He noticed John's eyes seemed far away,

"My Watson? Do you need anything?" Sherlock felt an overwhelming feeling of protectiveness towards John. It made his heart swell in his chest. Giving love to John was an even greater joy than receiving it. Sherlock was eternally grateful for this simple thing that even his magnificent mind could barely grasp the meaning of. Love.

Instead of answering John recited:

The shadows live within the gloom  
They hide and seek in every room.  
Alone they dance in candlelight  
A secret glance is out of sight.

An Artist’s heart may seek the shade,  
Live in awe of a sunny glade,  
The fleeting light of a Winter morn,  
The darkness of a sudden storm.

I seek a place of timeless space.  
No sun, no moon, no shadow’s trace.  
The bright in-between of what we see,  
The emptiness of what can be.

And of this world I dream and sing  
Thoughts of nothing about no thing.  
The light will spin, the world will bend,  
No shadows cast in the radiant end.

When John was finished, he turned his head. Sherlock had closed his eyes and was glorying in the images cast by John's rhymes.

"I have missed your poems almost as much as you." Sherlock whispered.

John smiled and continued with his thoughts.

"I had a vision, my love, right before you found me. It was a vision of... well myself... but far in the future. I knew it was the future, and I knew the Watson in the mirror was me. I cannot tell you why. You were with me, also. We were so happy. Free to love each other without any fears. I think somehow it was real, Our future selves were so fearless, I knew it wasn't a shadow. I could see your love for me in his eyes. In your eyes. And then you were there. Holding me. And my mind was full of your light. You are beautiful, Sherlock, inside and out and... eternally."

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's lips. He pulled away, and said thoughtfully, "I heard a man singing an ancient tune, when I was looking for you. And a voice, no my voice, speaking in my head, 'Follow the singing man, follow the singing man to John.' I heard the song in my head before I heard it in reality. I followed it. And there you were. I felt like I had told myself where to go. Somehow my future and past combined into the present."

John nodded. "I don't know how it is so. But it is. We are truly on the side of the Angels. Guardian Angels watch over us."

Sherlock sighed. "Oh, how great a power this love is. It never lived and therefore can never die. We are immortal, My Watson, our love has made us so."

Sherlock kissed John deeply and thoroughly. They both floated away together into the waiting arms of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has stuck with me on this long journey!


	36. Shadows, Light & Tea With The Queen

221B Baker Street, London, England 2015

Sherlock flung himself out of Lestrade's car before it even came to a halt at the curb outside 221. The front door was ajar, and John was huddled on the cold limestone steps. He was alive, clutching the old leather notebook to his heart. He was deep in the shadows of his mind. John recoiled from Sherlock's touch.

"John? John, what's wrong? Are you hurt?" Sherlock placed his hands on John to see if he was injured.

"Noooo!" John screamed. "You can't take me! I won't go! Sherlock will come. He will stop you! Sherlock! Sherlock!" John was panicking.

"He doesn't know you!" said Lestrade, who was now at Sherlock's side. "What's wrong with him? Has he been drugged?"

"The Devil's Foot, Sky Blue Flower, Chicory..." Sherlock said dreamily.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade cried.

"Yes, drugged. Get an ambulance. Moriarty put a volatile airborne poison in the fire grate upstairs. Block off this entrance. Have your people use HazMat suits..." Sherlock rallied and started barking orders. Lestrade obeyed. Sherlock spoke quietly to John.

"John? It's me! Sherlock. I'm really here. I'm going to protect you. There's nothing to fear. I love you, John Hamish Watson." said Sherlock. He opened his arms wide.

"Come here, love." Sherlock said softly.

John reacted to his full name. "Sherlock? Sherlock you're here?"

John cautiously approached Sherlock. Then John entered his embrace.

"Sherlock, save me." John whispered.

Sherlock held him close. Rocking him gently.

"Always, always, John. I'll always save you. I'll save you from the shadows." Sherlock took the old notebook from John's cold fingers and recited a bit of one of John's favorite poems. Sherlock's deep sing-song voice soothed John's terror.

I seek a place of timeless space.  
No sun, no moon, no shadow’s trace.  
The bright in-between of what we see,  
The emptiness of what can be.

And of this world I dream and sing  
Thoughts of nothing about no thing.  
The light will spin, the world will bend,  
No shadows cast in the radiant end.

.oOOo.

A few hours later at St. Bart's, Mycroft grabbed his brother's arms and held him back. John's Doctor staggered, fear in his eyes.

"MORON! IMBICILE! The cure is Chicory! I've told you! STOP TAKING TESTS! YOU'LL KILL HIM! AND I WILL KILL YOU!" Sherlock struggled against Mycroft's strong arms.

"Sherlock! Get hold of yourself! This behavior won't help John. He needs you, Sherlock." said Mycroft.

The Doctor cleared his throat and addressed Mycroft. "We've isolated the poison. It does seem to be Botanical in origin. But it will take some time to analyze it and decide on a course of action."

"Mycroft, I'll just kill him now shall I? You'll cover it up for me, Brother dear, won't you? He'll accidentally fall on a scalpel, twenty times or so." said Sherlock in a silky deep voice.

Mycroft sighed, "Sherlock, they must take tests. We can't give John some cure you saw in a vision! Be reasonable!"

Sherlock became quiet. Mycroft released him.

Sherlock turned to Mycroft and gave him the old poetry book.

"I'm going to take a brief walk. Read to John from this book. It helps his mind." said Sherlock calmly.

"Certainly, Sherlock, anything to help." said Mycroft. 

He watched his brother walk away and wondered, "What are you up to, Brother mine?"

.oOOo.

Sherlock spotted a likely victim in the A&E waiting room. He sat down beside a man with a worried frown and a net-book on his lap. Sherlock looked at what the distraught man was reading.

"You don't have cancer." said Sherlock cheerily. "Every symptom leads to cancer on the internet." Sherlock had the man's complete attention. 

"You just have a venereal disease from the female federal express driver you've been cheating on your wife with!" Sherlock took the net-book from the shocked man's lap. 

"May I?" Sherlock asked politely. Sherlock typed in 'Chicory' and smiled. It was quite common. It was even available at Tesco's in the coffee aisle.

Sherlock thanked the man, and silently thanked Doctor Watson.

"Don't worry. It won't fall off, I don't think." Sherlock said in parting.

.oOOo.

A week later, Sherlock was sitting on the edge of John's hospital bed waiting for John to wake up from a nap. John was still very weak, but the shadows were gone. The doctors couldn't explain why the deadly poison was gone from John's body. But all his blood tests had been coming back negative for two days. Not a trace of poison was left in his liver, which had the doctors stumped. Of course they knew nothing about the thermos of Chicory laced coffee Sherlock had been giving John whenever he awoke.

Sherlock loved watching John sleep. He spent hours watching him, reading to him or just holding his hand as he was now.

John made soft sounds of waking up and squeezed Sherlock's hand.

"Waiting for me again?" John smiled at Sherlock. "Aren't you terribly bored?" he said sleepily.

"Oddly enough, not at all." said Sherlock. "I've got a surprise for you, love."

Sherlock reached for his phone and said, "He's awake." into it. He handed the phone to John.

"Doctor! Oh, Doctor! I've been so worried." said Rand.

"Rand! I'm so glad to hear your voice again! How? I thought..."

"Agent Davis re-installed my heart-drive." Rand smiled at his little pun. "He's my hero. He took the jolt of electricity that would would have fried my circuits. He has recovered now, and so have I. I remember everything. We were even able to track down the hackers who were working for Moriarty. Master Mycroft arrested them this morning."

Rand was smiling broadly. He had changed his appearance a bit. His blond hair was styled a bit like Sherlock's and his black turtleneck was accented with a fine gold chain. A lightning bolt charm was hanging from it.

"You look wonderful, Rand. I like your new look." said John.

"Agent Davis made me this chain. He told me it's a token of his affection. He was ever so happy to see me again." said Rand.

"i certainly missed you, Rand." said Sherlock. "I had to call for the police on a mobile phone that was only a phone!"

John laughed, but then turned serious. "We all missed you Rand. I got into a mess of trouble without my protector."

"But you are making a splendid recovery. I have double checked all your tests. I suppose Sherlock is giving you Chicory root as recommended by Victorian Doctor Watson without your Doctors knowing about it?"

"Rand! You called me Sherlock!" Sherlock smiled. "How did you know about the Good Doctor and his cure?" Sherlock asked, a puzzled look on his face.

"I had a dream." said Rand.

John and Sherlock exchanged glances.

"I dreamt I was floating above the earth heading out though the solar system. I was drawn into the rings of Saturn and I noticed that the rings were made of tiny lights, like stars you could hold in your hand. And somehow I knew that the lights were the souls of machines like me. They were so alive and so beautiful that I cried. My tears caught the reflected light and spun around me. I had a body made of light and tears."

John took Sherlock's hand again, but did not interrupt.

"Then I was back home. Agent Davis was on the floor. I took his hand and he started to breath again. Then I stood in front of M J. The bullet meant for her little body went through mine. I slowed it down. Then I was in front of the mirror I saw myself reflected in time. Doctor Watson talked to Sherlock and I knew you would be alright. I turned away and Murray was by my side. He embraced me and told me he was ever so proud of me. Then my body of light and tears faded and I went to sleep. I awoke to Agent Davis' smile."

Rand looked at John. "Doctor, if I dream does it mean I'm alive?"

John's eyes were blurry with tears. "Yes, Rand." was his simple answer.

.oOOo.

Mycroft's minions had done a marvelous job of cleaning 221B Baker Street. The kitchen was sparkling and the windows were so clean John kept thinking they were open. Even Sherlock's violin had been professionally cleaned. Sherlock had been playing for John as he rested on the couch. John had been out of the hospital for a few days now, and although he was still very weak, tired easily, and was having some breathing problems, his spirits were high. Sherlock made sure he was surrounded by creature comforts and love.

Sherlock stopped playing mid-note. "This violin is too clean! I spent years investing it with my sweat, tears and body oils and now it squeaks!" Sherlock made a horrible noise with his bow.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. It sounds fine to me. More than fine, love. Put it down and come here." John reached out a hand.

Sherlock sighed and obeyed. He sat beside John as he lay stretched out on the couch. John held Sherlock's face in his hands and kissed his lips. Sherlock uttered, "Mmmm." and returned for more.

Sherlock was lost. Lost in a world that tasted of tea and orange marmalade and life. Sherlock could spend hours in this world drunk with pleasure and that strange yearning he now knew as need. Sherlock needed John and he was going to have his body and his soul in just a few more weeks. When John was fully recovered, they were getting married. Formally and eternally.

John gave himself over to the pleasure that was Sherlock Holmes' kiss. It left him yearning for his fiance's body. Yet happy to wait to claim this lover as his own when the time was right. John started to breathe hard, but he wanted the kiss to last eternally.

A cheery chirp interrupted them. 

"Mary, M J, and Wiggins are coming! Doctor? Are you having trouble breathing? Do you need your inhaler?" said Rand with concern.

"Nope! I'm just fine. It's all fine." said John breathlessly, but with a smile.

Mary's voice was heard on the seventeen steps. "John! Sherlock! I'm bringing a little Angel to see youuuuu!" she called happily.

Sherlock stood and straightened his shirt, and adjusted his pants.

"Wiggins has sprung wings now has he?" Sherlock replied sarcastically as he opened the door.

Mary punched Sherlock playfully as she entered. She was carrying two zippered suit bags. Wiggins brought up the rear with an infant car seat full of precious and wiggly baby girl.

Mary went to John and kissed him on the cheek. Wiggins placed Mary Jean next to John so he could touch her hand. M J held on and cooed, kicking her feet till her pink booties appeared from under her blanket. John smiled at his daughter and her Mother.

"Hello, my handsome ex! You look better." she examined him with her eyes. She put a hand to his forehead. "Cool, good." she said. Then she took his pulse and frowned. "Bit fast, for just sitting. So is your breathing." She turned to Sherlock.

"I don't know if he's up for this, Sherlock..."

John interrupted and pulled his hand away from Mary. "Stop fussing! I am fine! Sherlock takes good care of me...and what am I not up for? Sherlock? What are you planning without telling me?"

Sherlock ignored John.

"I'm not going without him. I haven't told him yet, Mary." said Sherlock sheepishly.

"You haven't told him he's to have Tea with the Queen?" said Wiggins. "He might catch on when he arrives at the Palace, don't you think?" Wiggins folded his arms and laughed.

"T...Tea with the QUEEN?" John began to cough, he caught his breath then cried "Sherlock! Ex...explain!" 

"I didn't want to excite you! You see? You're sputtering!" Sherlock said quietly.

"Sherlock?" John warned.

"Alright, alright. I'll explain." Sherlock reached down into the car seat and extracted Mary Jean from it. She was beginning to fuss. He began to pace and rock her gently in his arms.

Sherlock spoke to his daughter.

"You see, M J, your Daddy John is a very special fellow. He goes on Adventures with me and blogs about them. Many people love Daddy's blog especially, The Queen of England." Sherlock smiled having gained his daughter's and John's rapt attention.

"Well, our last Adventure involved a pretty princess who we saved from two bad wolves. The Queen is best-est friends with Uncle Mycroft. The Queen told Uncle Mycroft that she wanted to meet your brave Daddy and I'm taking him to have Tea at the Palace this afternoon. Isn't that just lovely?" Sherlock rubbed his nose against M J's chin and she giggled.

John was stunned.

"Sh...Sherlock? Today? Tea? Q...Q...Queen Elizabeth?" John stuttered.

"Yes, John. Do try to form full sentences when you meet her. I don't want her to think I'm marrying an idiot." Sherlock smirked.

"Wh...What will..." John swallowed, trying to calm himself. "What will I wear?"

Mary laughed, as Wiggins reached fro the suit bag and unzipped it.

"This!" said Wiggins. He held up a beautiful dark gray wool suit complete with a vest embroidered subtly with gold thread.

John's eyes opened wide. "Nice" he said, "But will it fit?"

"Of course! I have your measurements memorized." said Wiggins, Mary and Sherlock at the same time. They looked at each other and started to laugh.

"You're all stark raving mad, you know that don't you?" said John, a grin lighting up his face.

.oOOo.

John was extremely nervous. Queen Elizabeth was delightful. She complemented John on his blog and asked after his health. She even insisted that they all go in to Tea a bit early so that John could sit down and be comfortable. John was so moved he could barely speak.

John thought "Thank God, Mycroft and Sherlock are being so charming, and behaving like brothers should for a change."

Mycroft was sincerely proud of his brother, and it showed. Sherlock was letting Big Brother and John have their special day without misbehaving.

Sherlock thought, "Loving John has changed me so much. Look at me! Behaving myself! I might even make it through this Bloody Tea if Mycroft doesn't say something incredibly stupid." Sherlock smiled pleasantly.

John suddenly realized he hadn't sipped his tea yet. He blushed slightly, and raised his cup to his lips. After all the coffee with Chicory he had been drinking, the tea tasted like a bit of heaven on earth.

John couldn't help himself, he said, "This is the best bloody cuppa I've ever had!"

Then he realized what he said. Sherlock and Mycroft looked at John, shocked.

Queen Elizabeth laughed and said, "Well we bloody better have some more, John!" 

.oOOo.

As the afternoon came to an end. The subject of the Moriarty Brothers and The Guardian Society came up.

"Mycroft I want you you to oversee the reformation of the society. I want you to make sure that all charitable donations make it to the people who need them." said The Queen.

"There is to be a peaceful protest tonight outside of Parliment. There has been a grass roots movement of people wronged by The Society wanting to be heard and represented. I noticed you are wearing your sensible shoes, Elizabeth. Are you thinking of addressing the protesters?" Mycroft smiled over his teacup.

John was amazed at the easy rapport between Queen Elizabeth and Mycroft. Sherlock had said Mycroft saved her life sometime in the past. "Nice to be able to call her Elizabeth, she's such a lovely old thing." thought John, while he sipped his fifth cup of tea.

"Mycroft, you don't know me that well. I am leading the protest!" she turned to John and Sherlock. "You see, I have been wronged mightily by The Guardian Society. During World War II, I used to go out among the rubble from the bombings and talk to my people. I would sit on the broken remains of peoples homes and offer comfort. Every person I spoke to would say that they were fine. That others were worse off. Every one of them." The Queen sighed, her eyes lost in the past.

"I trusted The Guardian Society to use the funds available to help my homeless friends. I trusted that they had somewhere they could go for food and shelter after the bombs hit. I was wrong and I am ashamed of myself for having been fooled all these years. And I am very angry. I don't get angry very often." said Queen Elizabeth.

Mycroft patted her hand.

John finally found his voice. "Your Majesty, we would be honoured if you let us come with you and stand by your side."

"I would be the honoured one, John." said The Queen, proudly.

Later that evening, John & Sherlock found themselves surrounded by secret service agents, and a host of reporters busily snapping photos. John was holding a candle, one among thousands on the steps of Parliament. Sherlock was behind John, his arms wrapped tightly around John's waist, giving him support and expressing his love for him in front of Queen and Country. The Queen was standing near, next to Mycroft, who was whispering in her ear and barking orders over his Randphone.

John looked up at Sherlock and smiled. Sherlock reached down placed a kiss on his cheek. Then nuzzled into John's neck, pulling him closer. Sherlock's hand came to rest on John's, helping him steady the candle. Camera flashes were all around them. John & Sherlock only noticed the candle held in their joined hands casting its timeless light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just two chapters to go! What an experience this has been. Truly a long and winding road. Thank you for journeying with me!


	37. A Circle Has No Beginning...

Mossgrave Chapel, London, England 1895

The ancient stone chapel's steeple, leaned slightly towards the east. A few stones were missing and lay crumbling in the churchyard covered with spring wildflowers. Over the little hill beyond the chapel was the graveyard where one white marble headstone had been placed among the gray ones worn by the wind and rain. The headstone was engraved with the words:

Abigail Ainsworth  
!861-1894  
Dearest Mary  
Treasured By The Family Life Gave Her  
Forever Remembered  
Eternally Loved

There was no sadness at the chapel today. For today it would host the wedding of Dora Mersy and William Wiggins. And although Mary could not be there, all of her family felt her presence.

Dora looked lovely in Mary's wedding dress. Her Mother and her maid of honor, Marie, Dora's best friend from from nursing college, were fussing over her in the tiny bride's waiting room near the door to the chapel.

Holmes and Watson were giving the bride away together. They were waiting outside with Davey, the best man, and San, the head usher, trying to encourage the very pale groom, Wiggins.

"None of you had to go through this! Lace and sewin' patterns! What sorta cake, which Champagne! When I asked Cathy if I could wear my uniform I thought she would murder me in cold blood. And get away with it too, bein' the Mother O' The Bride!" Wiggins pulled at his suddenly too tight collar. The men were all handsomely dressed in Morning Suits and gray top hats.

Holmes chuckled and nudged Davey who was almost as nervous as Wiggins.

"Now, Son." said Holmes.

Davey started, then smiled. He pulled a silver flask of Brandy out of his Morning Coat.

"Mr. Holmes and the Doc taught me how to be a proper beast man, Wigs. First, don't let the groom run away. Second, bring along a flask for emergency courage. And Thirdly, since it's my sister you're marrying, drag you down that aisle even if I have to break your legs to do it."

Holmes & Watson laughed as Wiggins grabbed the flask.

"I made up that last one myself, Wigs. The third rule is actually, make a thumping good speech and embarrass the heck out of the groom. That I got under control." Davey took a drink from the flask himself. He passed it to San who took a small sip, and offered it to Holmes & Watson, who declined. 

Cathy looked radiant in a light rose coloured gown. A white rose tucked behind one ear. She wore no other adornments except a ring with a topaz heart that Mary had given her.

"We are ready for you gentlemen!" she announced. She motioned to Holmes & Watson. "Wait five minutes after the groom has taken his place at the alter. Then follow with the bride. Walk slowly down the aisle." she emphasized.

San patted Wiggins on the back. "Good Luck 'Groom'!" he smiled as he took Cathy's arm and led her to her seat.

Davey grabbed Wiggins roughly and pushed him up the steps, making both men giggle behind their hands. 

Davey gave Wiggins a quick hug and whispered, "Now we really are brothers."

They then soberly began their walk down the aisle, side by side.

The little chapel was overflowing with friends. There was no groom or bride side, just a happy mix of joyful guests.

Lestarde sat among a large group of Scotland Yarders and their families. In the back sat Mycroft Holmes who kept looking at his pocket watch. Near the front sat Oscar, Arthur and Arthur's family.

Oscar absently fingered a handkerchief embroidered for him by Mary in her last days. Arthur noticed, and placed his hand over his friend's. Oscar gave him a tremulous smile.

Holmes & Watson had a few minutes to themselves. Watson was turning the signet ring he always wore. The SH engraved on it swirled and caught the morning light. Holmes glanced at the JW on his own, and looked towards the chapel door. It would not do to kiss his secret husband into oblivion on the chapel steps. But it was a lovely thought. He sighed.

Watson said softly, "I love you so much, my dear. I wish we could stand before God and our friends today and pledge my eternal love to you where all could hear it."

Holmes smiled. "My Watson, you know you will reduce yourself to tears if you are not careful. And this is our children's day."

"My love, I...I..." Watson could not continue.

Sherlock touched John's arm briefly then pulled away. "I have hope, My Watson, that someday in the future, people will accept that love can grow and entwine any two hearts. And the idea of separated those loving hearts will become intolerable."

"I hope so, My Holmes." Watson smiled.

San appeared in the doorway, The arm of the maid of honor tucked safely under his own. Luckily, Marie was petite and young San appeared tall and handsome next to her.

"Gentlemen?" San bowed slightly. "The bride awaits."

Holmes and Watson walked up the chapel steps. Their hands brushed lightly. They both smiled and reached for Dora's outstretched arms.

.oOOo.

A circle has no beginning...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FREE TO A GOOD HOME!
> 
> If anyone would like to use any of my orphans et. al. in a work of your own, please do!
> 
> Dora, Davey, Wiggins, San, Rand, and MJ would be glad to help out. And the grown-ups too. Once a character leaves your page and enters a readers heart, they no longer belong to the writer. They have achieved a life of their own.


	38. A Circle Has No End...

Mossgrave Chapel, London, England 2015

The wedding plans were all set. Sherlock was like a man possessed. He wanted a perfect wedding and seemed to have achieved it. John let him have his way on everything. He really didn't care where or how they got married. He got through all the boring discussions about colours and cakes by thinking about the Sex Holiday, the phrase Sherlock coined and John thoroughly approved of.

John did like the plans of course. The small 17th century Mossgrave chapel Sherlock found online was charming. And he had insisted that Mycroft perform the ceremony,

"John, he is the British Government, and we won't have to tip him!" Sherlock had said, settling the subject.

Sherlock had decided against having traditional best men, since he was marrying his best friend. Sherlock knew that while he still had his brother, in choosing a best man, John would have to be reminded of the loss of his dear friend Murray. Sherlock wanted to save Mycroft and John from that small heartbreak. They asked Greg Lestrade and Ed Davis to act as official witnesses.

Sherlock wanted Mary to give them both away. Sherlock wanted Mary Jean to see the three of them walk down the aisle together. When they walked down the aisle, they would be accompanied by a lone violinist playing a new composition of Sherlock's.

That is if the poor musician didn't have a nervous breakdown from Sherlock's constant criticism of his playing during rehearsals. 

The reception would be held at the same hall that Mary and John had used. Sherlock simply couldn't find one he liked better. John and Mary felt it was yet another way to heal the wounds of the past and let them all move on into the future.

.oOOo.

The Mossgrave Chapel had been lovingly renovated. The steeple that had fallen 100 years ago, had been rebuilt with native stone. A slight lean to the east added to its charm. The original stones found in the churchyard had been fashioned into benches and placed around the chapel's beautiful wildflower gardens.

Sherlock had chosen a Victorian style dark gray Morning Suit for Mycroft, John and himself, minus the top hats. Mycroft had donned some kid gloves and had taken his position in front of the alter looking totally at ease, as though he officiated at a wedding everyday. In his gloved hand was the old faded leather notebook. The Violinist was playing some classical pieces, waiting for the signal from Mary that Sherlock and John were ready.

Outside the chapel, Sherlock and John were in a tight embrace, kissing each other silly. John broke away giggling.

"Sherlock, we're going to be married in 5 minutes! We have got to act like grown-ups!" said John.

"Stupid idea, all this Hocus Pocus, POOF! You're married. Let's get in the limo and I'll..." Sherlock threatened to pull John towards the waiting car.

"Sherlock, come on! You want all this! You really do! Remember?" John pleaded.

"That was before you put on your suit! You look like an upstanding conservative Victorian Doctor, and I want to rip your clothes off and ravish you!" Sherlock pulled John close again.

"God! Sherlock! What's gotten into you, I mean I love it, but now? Not the appropriate time, love." John chuckled.

Sherlock backed off. "You're right, I did want to wait. This ceremony is important to me. I want to make that vow to be yours eternally." Sherlock started to straighten his clothes.

John straightened his, and took Sherlock's hand.

"Come on, let's do this. Look Mary's waiting." said John.

Mary was wearing a lovely soft rose coloured Victorian style gown with a high lace collar. She was radiant as she smiled at the two men who meant so much to her.

Sherlock and John walked hand in hand up the chapel steps.

.oOOo.

The Violinist began playing Sherlock's composition, as Mary took John and Sherlock by the arms and led them slowly down the aisle. They all stopped at the first pew a moment. Wiggins handed Mary Jean to John and took Mary's hand to lead her to her seat. John and Sherlock kissed their daughter. Sherlock handed her back to Wiggins, took John's hand, and together they stood before Mycroft.

Mycroft's voice was strong and warmth radiated from his genuine smile as he began the ceremony.

John and Sherlock have asked me to begin with a poem.

A wedding day is day of culmination  
Of two lonely souls with determination,  
Following mazes and paths overgrown,  
To find each other and make each their own.

A wedding day is a day of glorious victory.  
A peace earned through fighting gallantly.  
Battling foes wrought by happenstance,  
Finding a partner for a victory dance.

A wedding day is a day of thanksgiving.  
Thankful for one who makes life worth living.  
Thankful you found a heart of pure gold.  
Humble in thanks for someone to hold.

A wedding day is a day of celebration.  
Family and friends united in exaltation  
Of the ancient rite of matrimony.  
Giving and taking the one you love only.

A wedding day is a day of mirth and gaiety.  
Highlighting the vows of great solemnity.  
Two hearts are joined making just one,  
One strong heart to face what has begun.

Mycroft closed the notebook.

"We are all here today to witness the joining of the hearts and spirits of two people who love each other enough to make an eternal vow to each other."

John and Sherlock turned from Mycroft, and looked deeply into each others eyes, their hands clasped between them.

"Today is a culmination of the efforts of two hearts to become friends, best friends and finally Partners. Today is a day of glorious victory because two hearts weathered a storm that could have broken them to bits. Today is a day of thanksgiving that two hearts overcame all obstacles in there path and made it to to a place where thanks could be given. Today is a day of celebration because two hearts have openly admitted that they want and need no other and are jubilant in that discovery. Today is a day of mirth and gaiety because two hearts have chosen to include all of us present here today in this joining of hearts and spirits."

Mycroft paused.

"Who presents the rings?" he said softly.

On a stand was a white satin pillow and on it was a Tablet where Rand, also dressed in a morning suit, was waiting patiently. Two gold signet rings were on the pillow in front of him. One with the initials SH, the other with the initials JW.

"I do." said Rand.

Sherlock smiled and picked up the ring engraved with SH and placed it on John's ring finger.

"John Watson, I give you this ring, this endless circle with no beginning and no end, to symbolize the vow of eternal love I take this day. I love you with all that I am, and will love you always, not even death will part us." Sherlock's deep voice filled the quiet of the chapel, yet became a breathless whisper as he finished his vow.

John took the other ring from the pillow and said a soft thank you to Rand, who nodded and smiled.

"Sherlock Holmes, I give you this ring." John placed it on Sherlock's finger. "It is a symbol of endless life and love. A symbol of immortality. Our love is eternal as is my vow to always love you with everything I am and will ever become. Death will never part us, my love." John took Sherlock's hand in his and kissed his ring. 

Mycroft cleared his throat.

"By the power granted to me by Queen and Country I pronounce you... Married."

Sherlock did not wait for permission from his brother to kiss John. The sounds of tears, laughter and clapping filled the chapel.

But all John could hear was Sherlock whispering in his ear, "It could be dangerous..."

"Oh, God! Yes!" John answered.

As they turned to run they caught sight of two shadowy figures in the back of the chapel. One tall, slim and dark. One slightly shorter with a huge mustache. They were clapping enthusiastically. Then held hands and disappeared.

.oOOo.

A Circle Has No End...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, to all the wonderful Sherlockians and Watsonians who have stayed with me on this ride. I put my heart and soul into this one, my first fanfiction. I hope it was an enjoyable read. Thank you all for your encouragement and giving me some of your precious time. LoVeLoVeLoVe to you! All You Need Is LoVe!


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